


"Wrongful Accusations" aka "Inapplicable Perils Concerning Alpha Patronage"

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, But they're both really concerned before they do, Fights, Idiots in Love, John and Sherlock just need to have a talk, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, No actual violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Omega Mycroft, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Pining, Sex, Swordfighting, Swords, but not between Sherlock and John, it's not as bad as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-29 07:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15068027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: The whispers spread rapidly through the palace, the news of what had happened on everyone’s lips.“Have you heard?”“Did you hear?”“You’ll never believe what happened…”“Did they tell you what the Crown Prince did this morning down at the barracks?”There were gasps and titters. Exclamations of denial and then mirthful astonishment when it was confirmed.“It’s what happens when you let Omegas do what they shouldn’t.” A grey-haired Omega said with a succinct nod of their head. “I dunno what that Scottish Alpha was thinking- letting the Crown Prince train with swords. I’ve never heard of something so foolish.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings (I guess) for mentions of blisters and minor cuts/wounds. Just in case anyone gets squicked out.

The whispers spread rapidly through the palace, the news of what had happened on everyone’s lips.

“Have you heard?”

“Did you hear?”

“You’ll never believe what happened…”

“Did they tell you what the Crown Prince did this morning down at the barracks?”

There were gasps and titters. Exclamations of denial and then mirthful astonishment when it was confirmed.

“It’s what happens when you let Omegas do what they shouldn’t.” A grey-haired Omega said with a succinct nod of their head. “I dunno what that Scottish Alpha was thinking- letting the Crown Prince train with swords. I’ve never heard of something so foolish.”

“Well, we all know he won’t be making that mistake again.” Someone else said, and a few of the Omega servants broke into hysterical snickers. The Alphas looked less than amused.

“I hope he’s not damaged.” A woman said fretfully. “It can happen, you know. One of my cousins in the northern provinces, the same thing happened to him and he was never really the same, his Omega said.”

“It’d be a shame too.” A male Omega said, nudging his friend and barely containing his giggles. “I’ve heard he’s _very_ gifted in that area. Elsie’s the one what cleans his rooms and she said she caught him getting out of the bath once and before he made her leave, she caught _good_ sight of his-“

“Even if he is, it’s his own fault, I’m not saying it ain’t. But all the same…no Omega should treat their Alpha that way. Disrespectful is what it is. Outright disrespectful.”

“And the Scottish Prince is ever so nice and courteous” Another Omega sighed, casting a dreamy look at her friend while a few of the Alphas sneered.

“Too nice. And see where that got him? The Crown Prince made him the laughingstock of the palace, is what he’s done. If not the entire country. I wouldn’t be surprised if he breaks the betrothal after this.”

“I wouldn’t either! No Alpha would want to marry an Omega after they’ve done such a thing.”

“Such a bratty thing and shows how unruly and insolent the Crown Prince really is.”

“He’s been spoiled all his life.”

“Disgraceful. I wouldn’t blame the Alpha in the least!”

“But wouldn’t he have to pay a fine?”

“Not if he argued that it was the Crown Prince’s fault for breaking his vows, and I don’t think anyone would fault him for it. Not in the least!”

“No one would!”

“But he wouldn’t dare break his betrothal-“

“He won’t break the betrothal.” An Alpha from the back interjected, exasperated. “But the Alpha made a mistake, we can all agree to that. The Crown Prince is just too delicate. We’ve all seen him: not even this high and skinny as a twig, innocent as an angel just came from heaven. He’s a fragile Royal Omega- we all know how he’s been raised- and making him train with swords put too much stress on him. He was overwrought this morning, everyone who was there said so. But they said the Alpha Prince kept pressing him and pressing him and making him continue…I’m not surprised the Crown Prince broke.” He added. “That’s not the way you treat an Omega as soft as the Crown Prince, and if you ask my opinion, the Alpha Prince got what he deserved.”

There was outcry at this from both the Omegas and Alphas, and only a few nodded their heads in agreement.

“All the same.” Someone said, drawing attention and raising an eyebrow significantly. “We can agree that his mother should’ve stepped in and not let this happen in the first place…”

“It’s not her place anymore. That Alpha has Patronage.” Another snapped in contradiction. “He’s the one making decisions for the Crown Prince now, and after what happened I dunno that he’s all that up to the task.”

Murmurs of agreement rose, and the group looked about ready to disperse when a mousy-looking Omega with brown hair piped up-

“Where’s the Alpha Prince now?”

A few of the servants who had more authority- and who consequently loved to lord it over the others- exchanged meaningful looks.

“Eloise said the last she heard he was shut up in his rooms, refusing to see anyone. Even,” He paused for dramatic emphasis, “Prince Mycroft.”

Shocked gasps rippled through the group. To refuse to see the Prince was…it just wasn’t possible…most of them present couldn’t fathom doing such a thing and more than one Omega (and a few Alphas) shuddered at the thought of the ensuing wrath such an action would bring down on their heads.

_“He refused to see Prince Mycroft?”_

“Aye. He sent his man, Stamford, out to tell him so. Eloise said the Prince came and wanted to apologize on his little brother’s behalf, but the Alpha didn’t want to hear it.”

“He doesn’t want an apology. Mark my words, he’ll want penance from the Crown Prince.”

“They say he took the Crown Prince’s practice sword with him from the training yard-“

“He did! I saw him with it!”

“But why-“

“He’ll probably use it as part of the punishment…when he eventually metes it out.”

Uneasiness moved through the group as each contemplated what such punishment would warrant the use of a heavy practice sword, even if the blade was dull. They were still large, and heavy enough to break bone if aimed properly.

“Well. Suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.” The second floor housekeeper pronounced gravely. “Now come on. Look sharp. Can’t stand around jabbering forever. Let’s be about our duties- and no stopping to gossip!” She called after a giggling knot of Omegas from which occasional indiscreet words could be caught as they asked their friend just _exactly_ what Elsie had seen...

* * *

 

It’d probably been the shortest betrothal in history.

Sherlock screwed up his face where he’d buried it in the soft duvet of his bed, trying to keep a spill of tears from slipping past his eyelids. He wasn’t going to cry, he firmly told himself. He wasn’t going to cry.

He. Was. Not. Going. To. Cry.

Not _again_.

His best effort was ineffectual though, and despite his tightly closed lids, a few tears snaked from the corners of his eyes. They dripped onto the bedding which was already wet from an hour of crying his heart out. The fabric was uncomfortably damp against his face and smelled of salt and heartbreak.

_“Was that hard enough for you, John?”_

Sherlock curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his knees and bringing them up to his chest, then just let himself cry. It didn’t matter, he miserably decided. He could cry all he wanted. It wasn’t going to change what he’d done and maybe at the end he’d feel better…though he rather doubted it. There were no distractions, nothing else to occupy himself with, except replaying his fight with John over and over and over, remembering the way his ears had rang from the fury he’d felt at how unfair and callous John was being, hating John’s patronizing attitude, tired of being told he wasn’t trying hard enough, gritting his teeth and baring them like a snarling animal, wanting to hurt the Alpha and prove he wasn’t incapable…

_“Was that hard enough for you, John?”_

And it didn’t make Sherlock feel any better either to know that everyone was talking about what he’d done. Laughing at him. Saying that they’d known how it would be all along. Really, what had the Alpha Prince been thinking…?

There hadn’t been many people to witness his fight with John that morning, most of the Prince’s Guard already having been dismissed from the morning drills and not caring to linger and watch John teach him sword fighting, but there’d been enough for word to get out. It hadn’t been like the first morning when everyone had hung around and openly stared as John handed Sherlock a practice sword. They’d nudged each other and snickered while John patiently adjusted Sherlock’s awkward grip and guided him through the first basic maneuvers. John had pretended no one else was there, only Sherlock, and he’d been calm and relaxed, unaffected by the whispered bets which were being placed that he’d give up in a week, that he was wasting his time, that Sherlock couldn’t learn…

Sherlock had tried copying John’s example. He’d pretended that he was above it all, everyone’s petty mutterings not bothering him in the slightest. He didn’t care what everyone thought. They were wrong anyway. John said he could learn how to sword fight and Sherlock believed him. He’d followed John’s instructions that first morning, doing exactly as he was told, and beaming under John’s praise. It’d ended well, and even though his muscles were sore and small blisters had already started forming on his hands, Sherlock had been elated.

That elation had only lasted until the second morning of training when Sherlock pertly told John he was sore and that there were blisters on his fingers. He’d expected John to be effusive in apology, tell Sherlock they would wait until he was recovered, and begin again in a few days.

Instead, John had nodded, said that would happen, and instructed Sherlock to enter the first stance.

Callous. Uncaring. Displaying an insensitivity Sherlock hadn’t thought John was capable of.

Sherlock’s enthusiasm for sword fighting had rapidly decreased each subsequent morning as he sullenly hefted his practice sword, muscles protesting…until this morning…when he’d lost his temper…

Mycroft had taught Sherlock that it didn’t matter what the _actual_ truth was. It only mattered what people _believed_ was the truth, and Sherlock knew the story of what had happened would get told and re-told, embellished here and there, the truth stretched and distorted to make it more dramatic. By nightfall, the whole palace would think Sherlock had tried to run John through with his practice sword, slapped him across the face, spat on his prone body, and then left him lying in the dust.

Which was all patently untrue. Except that last bit. The part about leaving John lying in the dust. That had happened. But the rest of it…

Thinking about Mycroft made Sherlock cringe. Mycroft had insisted on being present for all of Sherlock’s practice sessions with John. Every morning, without fail, he’d taken time out of his busy schedule to sit in the shade of the barracks and watch Sherlock’s progress, making sure he was alright and that no harm came to him. Sherlock hated the mollycoddling and silent judgment he felt radiating from Mycroft’s corner, and it hadn’t made him feel any better as John told him he wasn’t trying hard enough and all Sherlock could concentrate on was how his palms were smarting where he gripped the sword.

Mycroft had been there that morning. He’d seen what Sherlock had done, but he hadn’t yet come to see him. Not even to yell at him. That, in and of itself, let Sherlock know just how much trouble he was really in. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft were trying to convince John not to break the betrothal.

He imagined that John and the delegation from Scotland were in the process of packing their things that very moment. Would they leave that afternoon, or wait until the next day? Would Sherlock be able to see John before he left? What if he wasn’t allowed- maybe John wouldn’t want to see him? That meant Sherlock would never see John again.

Raw pain throbbed through his chest. Sherlock whimpered. He may be angry with John- furious, actually- but he didn’t want to lose him. He’d liked John…quite a lot.

Sherlock sobbed. He honestly regretted what he’d done. Why had he acted so stupidly this morning? He shouldn’t have let his temper get the best of him, but all week he’d heard the whispers and endured the looks and snide comments. Then this morning when John…when he…

_“Harder.”_

_ThwackThwackThack_

_“Harder. Come on, Sherlock. Harder than that.”_

_ThwackThwackThwack_

_“Sherlock, I know you can hit harder than that. You’ve done all week. You’re not following through with the attack…No, not like that! Lean into it, Sherlock. Not that way. Do it the way I’ve shown you…You have to put force behind the blow or it won’t matter.”_

_ThwackThwackThwack_

_“You’ve got to hit harder…harder! Why aren’t you-”_

_“Was that hard enough for you, John?”_

They wouldn’t go on the Royal Tour, Sherlock realized dejectedly. It’d be canceled if John broke the betrothal, and all of Mycroft’s hard work would be wasted. Sherlock wouldn’t get to show John Northumbria like he’d planned. He wouldn’t get to share all his favorite spots with him once they reached Bernicia and Deira- the lands which were the traditional holdings of the Crown Prince. He’d thought they would spend all summer getting to know one another better, developing their friendship, and deepening their connection.

And maybe, Sherlock had thought a few times when he went to bed, blushing at how silly he was being, they would’ve fallen in love.

That possibility was gone now. Sherlock had no one to blame but himself.

The worst thing- what made the pain in Sherlock’s chest double, then triple- was that John had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about it. About all of it. He’d wanted Sherlock to tell him everything, encouraging him whenever they were together to talk and talk and talk like no one else ever did. Other people wanted Sherlock to hush and even Mycroft shushed him regularly when he was being annoying, but John _wanted_ to hear what Sherlock had to say. John wanted to know where they were going, what Sherlock thought of the locations on the tour, and what they would do once they got to such and such a place. He wanted to know about the people, the country, the food, the music, the castles and surrounding lands, asking questions to find out more. Enquiring which selections of music were Sherlock’s favorite and, of the 12 different stops on the Royal Tour, which did Sherlock most look forward to and why. Was he more excited about the fireworks display they’d be treated to at Montpellier or sea-bathing once they reached Nice?

The first time Mycroft overheard their conversation, he’d offered to get John a book about Northumbrian history- since he seemed so fascinated by it. For some reason, his offer had made John go red in the face and he’d thanked Mycroft…but said he’d much rather hear it from Sherlock. If, he added, turning to Sherlock with a hopeful expression, Sherlock didn’t mind telling him?

Of course not. Sherlock loved talking to John. He’d said as much which inexplicably made John go even redder in the face, and Mycroft had snorted into his wine glass. Sherlock didn’t know why. He was only telling the truth.

He did love talking to John because John _listened_. He always paid attention and never let his eyes glaze over from boredom- even when Sherlock was telling him about his future plans for an apiary at Bernicia which everyone (even Mycroft) thought was dull.

John said Sherlock’s apiary sounded lovely. He’d asked what sorts of flowers Sherlock would plant because he’d once read different flowers made the honey taste certain ways. Was that true? Drawing in an excited breath, Sherlock had immediately launched into his own findings on the subject, and John hadn’t rolled his eyes or looked irritated or tried to make Sherlock be quiet. He’d listened, smiling, hands behind his back while they strolled down the garden pathway with Mrs. Hudson trailing along behind as chaperone. He’d asked questions here or there when there was a gap in his knowledge which Sherlock could easily fill in and before Sherlock had realized, they’d been talking for two hours, Mrs. Hudson was complaining about her feet hurting, and the noonday bell was ringing. They’d reluctantly parted, John brushing his lips over the back of Sherlock’s hand, gentle over his palm where the worst of his blisters were, and said that he’d like to hear more about Sherlock’s plans once they reached Bernicia, so he could see it for himself.

And John had _meant it._

Sherlock sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and sat up in bed. He thought about going and telling John that he was sorry.

No. He wouldn’t. He refused to go. He didn’t want to crawl downstairs like a kicked puppy and beg John Watson to forgive him. It made Sherlock feel miserable even thinking about it. The fact that he probably _should_ go and apologize to the Alpha was neither here nor there.

Tears burned the back of Sherlock’s throat. Oh, gods. What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been thinking, he thought angrily. He’d let everything get the better of him- all the whispers and backhanded taunts about his slow progress. Mummy telling him that he couldn’t do it but that it was so sweet of John to pretend that he could. Mycroft’s presence at their morning practices, watching from the sidelines with Captain Lestrade, and his constant prodding afterwards for Sherlock to just give it up- then giving Sherlock _That Look_ which Mycroft _knew_ Sherlock hated when he refused to do so. But what had hurt the most, what had made everything intolerable, was John’s total disregard of Sherlock’s discomfort, his apathy to Sherlock’s pain, and incessant nagging-

No, not nagging, Sherlock conceded, flicking away a stray tear from his cheek. John hadn’t nagged him. He’d taught him and it’d only felt like nagging because…well, because…

His bedroom door opened and Sherlock’s heart leapt out of his chest. He raised his head, craning to see. Was it his brother…or maybe-?

Oh. He slumped.

Mrs. Hudson slipped inside the room, looking strained. Her eyes immediately landed on Sherlock where he was curled on the bed, and she took in his reddened face and swollen eyes, giving him a sympathetic look. Sherlock felt terrible.

“Oh, Sherlock. What’ve you done?” Her worried question, softly underlined with censure and disappointment, stung worse than any angry shout would’ve done. Sherlock’s face crumpled and he started to sob again.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head, quickly moving across the room so she could wrap her arms around him. “There, there. It’ll be alright, I’m sure. Tell me what happened, love?”

“You know! I know you know what happened! You’ve already heard…” Sherlock managed between sobs, the words horribly garbled against Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder and she shushed him, gently stroking at his hair.

“Yes, I have. But I’d much rather hear it from you, dear, instead of secondhand from the servants.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell her what had happened, though. He couldn’t. He was too ashamed and angry and upset. The tears came thick and fast and words were impossible besides. He let Mrs. Hudson pet him a while longer, soaking in the comfort, until his sobs died down and his chest felt hollowed out like a melon rind.

“I k-kicked John.” Sherlock confessed, voice a faint murmur. “In the…in the…between his legs.” He hesitated, then decided to make a clean sweep of it. “And I kicked him as h-hard as I could. I put…all my strength into it, like Mycroft taught me, and…when he fell to the ground I…t-tossed my sword at him and maybe…maybe said a few things that would be considered…mean.”

_“Was that hard enough for you, John?”_

Mrs. Hudson sighed shakily through her nose, and if the situation hadn’t been so dire, Sherlock would’ve thought she was trying not to laugh. But he knew his nanny wouldn’t laugh at him, not when he was so upset.

“Ah, well. It’s probably not as bad as it seems. Your brother-“

“He’s angry with me.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t deny that. “It was a very…unkind thing you did, dear.”

“John was unkind to me first!” Sherlock cried in outrage, pushing away from her and glaring. “You know he was. All week he’s been unkind to me. First, he didn’t care about my hands or how much they hurt and then today he wouldn’t…he kept…” Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes, annoyed that he was crying again. “I couldn’t swing the sword harder. John knew that I couldn’t!” Sherlock snapped. “He knew it! It hurt. I told him it did!”

Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and Sherlock didn’t know if it were in disapproval of what he’d done, or what John had done. Probably both.

“Let’s see your hands.”

Sherlock obediently held his hands out to her, palms up, and Mrs. Hudson tsked and winced over them sympathetically. They did look rather bad. Sherlock’s fingers were stiff, curving over his palms and he didn’t try straightening them because when he did, it hurt, pulling on the blisters and raw places which decorated his palms. Mrs. Hudson’s touch was gentle as she traced over them, but Sherlock still whimpered. He hadn’t been lying to John. His hands _hurt_.

“Your poor hands.” She shook her head. “For once, as much as I hate to admit it, I have to agree with your brother. I knew this sword fighting business was a bad idea. For all that John’s an Alpha he can be wrong sometimes. You’re an Omega and Omegas just aren’t meant to sword fight-“

Sherlock jerked his hands away from her, temper flaring. “I can too sword fight! It doesn’t matter that I’m an Omega because I’m just as capable as anyone else! I know I am and that’s what John said too. He said it was stupid how everyone thought I was weak and couldn’t do it because he knew that I could-...he said…he said…” But Sherlock’s throat closed up when he tried to tell her what else John had said, all the wonderful compliments he’d given him before he started acting like such an arse.

“I’ll go and get something for your hands.” Mrs. Hudson said quietly, leaving Sherlock to nurse his wounds, both physical and mental, on his own. He stared down at his hands, at the sores accumulated from a grueling week of sword fighting. They throbbed, sending pain radiating all the way to his wrist, but wouldn’t last forever. Sherlock knew why they were there and what they’d turn in to, intimately acquainted with how callouses were formed. He remembered how painful it’d been when he first began playing the violin, his fingers raw and bleeding, until he developed hard skin on the tips of his fingers. But these blisters were miserably painful, and big, and they seemed to have gotten worse day-by-day, healing during the night only to break open each morning when he touched his sword and went through the exercises with John. Over and over.

And John hadn’t cared. Sherlock hadn’t suffered in silence. That wasn’t his style and he’d told John on multiple occasions that his hands hurt. He’d even shown him a few mornings ago, thinking that since he had blisters that meant he would be given a few days to heal before starting again. John had urged him to press on. He’d told Sherlock that he would get better, that he needed to grow proper callouses in order to handle the sword properly. That would come with time, he said, but Sherlock had to keep working on it, and then he’d instructed Sherlock to enter the first stance.

Sherlock had been shocked. And angry. Didn’t John care? Sherlock was in pain. He didn’t want to sword fight when he was in pain. He had, though, not wanting John to think he was weak, or regret asking to train him.

Then, this morning.

“Come on, dear." Mrs. Hudson called. "Come over by the window. Some fresh air will do you good.”

Sherlock slid from the bed, wiping at the hair which clung to his face with the backs of his hands, pushing it out of his eyes. Doing so made him catch sight of himself in the mirror and he stopped, staring. He looked a mess. His face was blotchy, ugly and mottled and red, and his eyes were red too and swollen. He was still dressed in the loose clothes he’d worn to training, and Sherlock stared at them sadly, knowing he’d never get to wear them again. Mrs. Hudson called for him, drawing his attention, and he shuffled away from his reflection, miserable.

She placed the bowl of cooled green tea- a folk remedy for blisters- in front of him and Sherlock hissed as he slipped his hands into it, the open blisters and raw places on his palms pulling and hurting, smarting sharply no matter how gingerly he treated them. He moaned in pain, wanting to take them out of the tea, but knew they’d keep hurting no matter where they were. It was best to leave them in the green tea and let the pain be slowly leaked away, bit by bit…until Sherlock made the mistake of flexing his fingers, making the hurts flare with sharp pain.

“Would you like some breakfast? You went off so early this morning and you haven’t had a thing to eat.”

Sherlock shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t feel as if he would ever be hungry again.

“That young man should’ve known better.” Mrs. Hudson chastised indignant on his behalf, as she went about making them proper cups of tea, setting the kettle in the fireplace to boil. “John knew you’d never done anything like this before. I’m no sword master or whatever they call themselves, but it seems to me he went too fast with you. He should’ve given you breaks, let you ease into it and then let you catch up later…”

Sherlock let her words wash over him, not really paying attention, morosely staring down at his hands where they floated in the cool liquid. He’d promised Mycroft that he wouldn’t embarrass him, and then gone and done just that. He’d rendered all of Mycroft’s hard work of the last two years’ moot, and Sherlock thought of how Mycroft had worked himself night and day to find a suitable Alpha because he loved Sherlock and wanted the best for him…and all for nothing. Thrown away because Sherlock had gotten angry and acted like a little fool in the heat of the moment.

It hadn’t been worth it.

If he _did_ go and apologize to John, Sherlock tentatively thought, he supposed he could-

His bedroom door opened again and Sherlock twisted in his chair, hands dripping green tea onto the expensive carpet. Mycroft slipped inside, his face grave, and Sherlock wanted to burst into tears all over again. Mycroft regarded Sherlock from across the room, leaning against the door. He didn’t say anything. Nothing needed to be said.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft.” Sherlock husked, lip wobbling. He couldn’t stand his brother being angry with him, but his quiet disappointment was worse than being covered in blisters over his whole body. Mycroft sighed.

“Oh, Locky.” He sounded so disappointed. Sherlock’s throat closed up and he swallowed thickly.

“What’s...what did...what’s been said?”

Mycroft slowly made his way across the room, dragging his feet as if he were very tired. It wasn’t even noon yet. He sank into one of the chairs across from Sherlock and accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, surprised but grateful. “Nothing has been said, actually. I attempted to speak with John this morning… _afterwards_. He was very…very angry when he left the practice yard. He’s shut himself in his rooms and his man- Stamford- says he wants no visitors. As far as I can tell, there have been no preparations made for the delegation to leave.”

They shared a look, concerned about John’s reaction. If John didn’t break the betrothal, there was only one other option he would take. Sherlock felt sick.

“Alpha pride.” Mycroft set his tea aside, untouched, looking pale. “It’s a tricky thing. More so when one is in the position John is.”

The fact that his brother was worried made Sherlock’s fear worse. He tried to hide it, putting his hands back in the green tea and sighing with relief.

“What do you mean?”

“John is an outsider at Marseille. He’s new to the Court, and everyone is watching him. Judging him. They want to know what sort of Alpha he is- what sort of ruler he may become. After what happened this morning…after what you did…if he simply does nothing…it’s a sign of weakness.” Mycroft shrugged. “He’ll lose what little respect in the Court he’s thus far gained.”

“What…” Sherlock licked his lips which were uncomfortably dry. “What will he do?”

The possibilities were frightening.

From the moment their betrothal was finalized, John had been granted the Right of Alpha Patronage over Sherlock until Sherlock was of age. Then, they would marry and bond, and John would hold much more sway. But Patronage was a way for Alphas to guide their Omegas, shape them into the spouse they desired, and enforce their dominion over them from an early age. A Patron had the final say in all matters relating to their Omega and John could, if he were so inclined, have _ordered_ Sherlock to train with swords. He could have _ordered_ him to no longer see his tutors. His brother. Forbidden him to practice the violin. Gone for rides on his horse. Dine with the Court during the festivities.

The Right of Alpha Patronage was far-reaching.

Very far-reaching.

John could, in theory, control any part of Sherlock’s life that he wished, dictating to the Omega what would be done, where and when and how often. Only the Queen could reverse any of his decisions, but both Sherlock and Mycroft knew, after their mother’s glowing approval of John at the celebration dinner, that unless John’s choices were incredibly repugnant, she wouldn’t interfere.

Until now, John had seemed a sanguine Alpha, an indulgent Patron. It had only been a week, but nothing had been done, or ordered, or changed. John had made it clear to Sherlock that he had the right to speak up and refuse, he had a choice in everything, and that John didn’t actually plan to enforce his will as a traditional Patron would. He seemed sincere. Sherlock had believed him.

Now, he was anxious. His hands shook in the tea, causing it to slosh against the sides. Because an important part of Alpha Patronage included discipline. Alphas were expected to punish their Omegas for misbehaviors, not as an abuse, but as a way to improve them, provide guidance and direction, and demonstrate the Alpha’s authority. Spare the rod and spoil the child was a common refrain. Omegas without discipline would become disobedient and rebellious, wayward, and wouldn’t know the dangers they were putting themselves in with their ill-advised misbehaviors. It was up to their Alpha to guide them with kind but firm chastisement.

Frequently.

“I don’t know, Sherlock.” Mycroft admitted. “I honestly don’t know. I won’t lie because I have given this extensive thought and it’s possible…if I had to guess…I would assume that John would act in the way he has been taught. John hasn’t had many good examples of Alphas…and his father…”

“What did…what did his father do? In Scotland?”

“Different things.” Mycroft said evasively, but that wasn’t enough. Sherlock had to know.

“Mycroft…”

“King Watson’s preferred method of punishment was physical. With his fists.” He elaborated, voice bland, refusing to look at Sherlock. “He backhanded his Omega Queen once in front of the entire Court. It _was_ shocking.” He confirmed when Sherlock’s eyes widened. “But no one spoke against him. He thinks the way he behaves is a sign of strength, and in fairness to him, it has earned him the loyalty- and fear- of his people. I don’t think John found his father’s tactics pleasant. On more than one occasion I witnessed John’s disgust and outrage at his father’s behavior…but now…” Mycroft looked so worried, biting his lip, thoughts racing across his face faster than Sherlock could keep up with. “Since you dealt the first blow, as it were…it is possible…”

“John wouldn’t.” Sherlock said in a small, quavering voice. He remembered John’s kind smile, the gentle way he looked at him, and the quiet cadence of his voice. But even as he defended him, Sherlock realized it might not be true. After all, what did he really know about John? He’d only known him a week. Sherlock could count the number of hours they’d so far spent together. He didn’t know John Watson at all, he realized with sickening dread.

“He may not.” Mycroft conceded, but Sherlock could tell that he was only trying to placate him. Mycroft was really worried. He couldn’t hide it. “John may…he could not always be controlled with his father’s fists…so King Watson found other ways to punish his son.”

Sherlock hung on Mycroft’s words, the now-cold liquid his hands were floating in forgotten. Mrs. Hudson hovered nearby with a fresh bowl which was equally forgotten, just as keen as Sherlock to know how John would act.

“King Watson would take away things he knew John loved. His tutors and their lessons. Books. John’s sword. His servant, Stamford. Mostly, however, it was the company of John’s mother that King Watson would take. John wouldn’t be allowed to see her, correspond, or communicate with her in any way. It was my understanding when I arrived that John had been forbidden to see her for the last month. I don’t know the reason why…but he was still under that restriction when we left.”

It reminded Sherlock of a punishment he’d received from Mummy years ago. He’d still been small, not really understanding the way of things yet, and snuck away from Mrs. Hudson to go in search of his mother. He’d wanted to see her because she’d been very busy and hadn’t came to see him, or even sent for him, in more than a month. Sherlock had missed her.

He’d wandered the corridors for ages, but finally found her in the council room, surrounded by her advisors and Mycroft. Mycroft had spotted Sherlock hovering at the door and looked alarmed, frantically shaking his head and silently urging Sherlock to turn back. But Sherlock had ignored him and hurried to Mummy’s side. He’d beamed up at her, tugging at her skirts, so pleased to see her again, reveling in her scent. He’d been certain that she would look down at him with her pretty smile like she always did and pick him up, nuzzle at his cheek, and give him the attention he craved.

Instead, her expression had been cold. The happiness Sherlock felt crumbled into dread as she asked him what he thought he was doing. The council room was no place for an Omega. Where was Mrs. Hudson? What had Sherlock been thinking? Did he know that he was interrupting an important meeting with his foolishness? All he’d wanted was attention? If he’d wanted attention why hadn’t he gone to Daddy? That was what Daddy was for, didn’t he remember? Daddy had nothing else better to do, after all. The assembled Alphas had looked askance at Sherlock, disturbed by his presence, harrumphing and shuffling their papers around to express their displeasure until he’d been marched from the room.

As punishment, Mummy had taken away Sherlock’s violin. He hadn’t gotten it back for months and Sherlock suspected that Mycroft had eventually intervened to have it returned. When the violin was given to him, Sherlock had been so relieved that he’d sobbed in gratitude.

And he’d learned his lesson. He’d never gone searching for Mummy again.

At the memory, Sherlock desperately wished that he’d never told John he played violin. What if that were his punishment? What if John took the instrument away from him? What if he never gave it back? What if he made Sherlock destroy it? What if he destroyed it himself and made Sherlock watch, to teach Sherlock a lesson? Sherlock remembered the way he’d proudly told John about his violin and offered to play for him, wanting to impress John. Now, the idea of John using that knowledge against him, when it had been so freely given in trust, made Sherlock feel sick.

What if John didn’t take his violin? What if John ordered that Sherlock’s tutors be dismissed? Or that Sherlock was to be kept away from Mycroft- the same way John’s own mother had been kept from him? John knew that he and Mycroft were close and could exploit their relationship to punish him. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and before his brother glanced away, he saw mirrored in his face every terrible thought he was already thinking.

“Could…Mummy…?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ve already spoken with her and she refuses to undermine John’s authority in the Court. She said that she’ll agree to whatever penalty he deems appropriate.”

The last piece of hope Sherlock held shattered like glass. All of the horrible things he’d ever heard an Alpha doing to their Omega raced through his head. The various exploitations and meanness and the ensuing unhappiness. Even Mummy could be mean, occasionally restricting Daddy’s meals to bland, distasteful things as punishment for some misdeed or other. Sherlock had really never paid much attention- it was just the normal way of things that sometimes Daddy wasn’t allowed the nice meals they were for months at a time- but now he realized. He frowned, tracing back over events to see if he could parse out other times.

What if John really hit him?

Sherlock looked at Mycroft’s cheek where only the barest trace of a bruise remained. That had also been Mummy’s punishment, administered in the heat of the moment. Sherlock wondered if it’d happened other times before. Mycroft had never said, but that didn’t mean anything. Sherlock wouldn’t have known about this time at all if he hadn’t snuck down the hall and listened at Mycroft’s door. He felt uneasy. What else had gone on that he didn’t know about- or hadn’t realized for what it was?

Sherlock thought of John’s arms, the bunch and flex of muscles he’d covertly admired as John easily swung his sword, the strength behind his attacks which he’d tempered for Sherlock- but which had been hard all the same. If John hit him, it would hurt. Sherlock had never been hit before. Ever. He thought about asking Mycroft if it’d hurt terribly much. He wanted to know so he could be prepared. He rallied his nerve, opening his mouth to ask, when a brisk knock sounded at the door.

Sherlock’s eyes collided with Mycroft’s, his vision narrowing in sudden fear when-

“Sherlock?” John’s heavy accent was obvious even through the door. “I’d very much like to talk to you, please.”

“Mycroft-!” Sherlock gasped, suddenly nauseous with dread and Mycroft quickly rose. For a brief moment he looked anxious, then smoothed over his expression and gave Sherlock a reassuring smile which fell flat.

“Stay here, Locky. It’s too soon for the two of you to have any rational discussion on the matter. John needs more time to calm down. I’ll go and make your excuses- say you’re unwell and resting- and send him away. Until later.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock watched Mycroft stride confidently to the door and then pull it open, stepping neatly into the hallway and firmly shutting it behind him. Sherlock listened hard, hearing their voices murmuring together but not able to catch actual words…then silence.

Another spurt of conversation. More silence.

Nervous, Sherlock thought about going to the door and pressing his ear against the wood. 

He heard his brother’s voice- John’s…more silence.

What were they talking about?

He’d almost made the decision to sneak over to the door, when the knob turned and it swung open. But instead of Mycroft, as Sherlock had anticipated, it was John who stepped into the room. Sherlock’s heart turned over in his chest as John gave him a weak smile and Sherlock was just able to see Mycroft stood in the hallway before John closed the door. Sherlock belatedly realized, with a thrill of fear, what he should have known all along: John outranked Mycroft. Mycroft’s machinations were meaningless, reduced to merely polite suggestions, because John didn’t have to listen to or obey a word Mycroft said. Ever.

About anything.

“Sherlock.” John said softly. “I believe you and I need to have a talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Earlier that morning…**

“You must intervene.”

“Must I?”

“ _Yes_. Mummy, Prince John-“

“Is Sherlock’s Patron and may do as he sees fit.” The Queen smoothly interrupted, holding up a hand when Mycroft opened his mouth to argue. “You know as well as I that Sherlock behaved in a shocking manner this morning. He has shamed both us and himself by losing his temper and disrespecting his Alpha in such an abhorrent, offensive way. The whole palace is talking about what happened, you know. From the cellars to the crenellations, the news of the day is on everyone’s lips.” She shook her head, lips thinned down into pitiless lines. It was an expression Mycroft knew well. He already knew what she would say.

“I will not intervene. Quite frankly, I have no desire to. Sherlock deserves to be punished for what he did. As his Alpha Patron and future husband- besides being the one Sherlock attacked- it’s only fitting that John should administer that punishment.”

“Mummy, please-“

“ _Enough_ , Mycroft.” Her voice lashed out, irritated, and she fixed her eldest son with an unwavering look. “Do not waste our time with any more of this nonsense. Nothing you say will change my mind. I will not undermine John’s authority in this Court by superseding his decisions regarding Sherlock, not unless he causes him bodily harm-”

“But he might!” Mycroft said, rushing forward, and his mother’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft drew up short, knowing he was on thin ice. Mummy didn’t tolerate anyone, even her favorite son, openly contradicting her, but he had to try and help Sherlock. “He’s so much bigger than Sherlock, and stronger, and Prince John might hurt him without even meaning to-”

“Oh, please, Mycroft.” The Queen rolled her eyes. “John is a responsible, level-headed Alpha. He knows the correct way to go about things. You’re being dramatic.”

“I wish I were, ma’am. But I’ve personally witnessed the deplorable environment John was raised in, the appalling examples which were set for him as to how an Alpha should behave. Consequently, John is accustomed to correction in the form of cruelty and physical violence and I’ve come to you because I’m afraid that after what Sherlock did- for which he has every right to be punished!” Mycroft hurriedly added when he saw the forbidding look on his mother’s face. “I’m not disputing that, ma’am. What Sherlock did was disgraceful. He deserves chastisement because he never should have done- but John may be so angry that he feels it necessary to resort to corporeal punishment-“

“He very well might and no one, including myself, would fault him for it.”

The last feeble hope Mycroft had naively nourished withered away.

“You know as well as I that it’s a common punishment to administer to Omegas- so long as one doesn’t take things too far, which I doubt John would. You should give him more credit than that, Mycroft. John won’t permanently maim Sherlock if he gives him a tap here or there as correction. It’s as one does when training a dog or horse which hasn’t been broken in properly. Sometimes, one uses a gentle hand to support and reassure and encourage good behavior…but at other times, an unerring flick of the whip is needed to remind them of their rightful place. It’s a good Alpha who knows when each method should be administered for the betterment of their Omega. I’ve been impressed with John, and I believe he is just that sort of Alpha. Smart. Capable. And that’s what Sherlock needs: firm correction. Bruises heal and in their place leave an immovable lesson.”

That was certainly true, Mycroft thought. Bruises did heal…and he’d learned the lesson to never ask his mother for help again, not after her _motherly correction_ during his disastrous last heat.

He recalled the shocking pain of her open-handed slaps exploding across his face, sharp enough to cut through the suffocating layers of heat. The hurt lingered afterwards, throbbing in time to the other injuries decorating his body. When she’d hit him again, it’d been that much worse, so excruciating Mycroft hadn’t even cried out. Seeing his cheek swollen and mottled the next morning, bruised and still throbbing with pain, had been alarming. Even more so had been Mycroft’s deeper understanding of his mother.

“It’s well within John’s rights to punish Sherlock as he sees fit.” The Queen continued. “He will discipline Sherlock in a suitable fashion and the lesson will be learned. Sherlock has to grow up sometime, Mycroft, and realize that there are consequences to his actions. He cannot continue to behave in the fashion he’s been accustomed to, especially not toward his Alpha. John should command Sherlock’s respect and deference at all times, and he needs to assert his control now before Sherlock becomes even more spoiled than he already is- which is all your doing.” She said, fixing Mycroft with an accusatory expression. “I lay the blame entirely at your feet. You’ve always taken Sherlock’s side no matter the circumstances, pleading his case and convincing me to reduce his punishments.”

“I did what I thought was best.” Mycroft had thought Mummy was too harsh- she’d honestly never meant to give Sherlock’s violin back. Many of her punishments had appalled Mycroft. He hadn’t wanted Sherlock subjected to them.

“Your best wasn’t good enough. This morning’s incident wouldn’t have happened if you’d allowed me to discipline Sherlock properly all these years, instead of indulging him as you’ve done.”

“Sherlock was a _child_. There were other ways to discipline him that weren’t damaging.” Mycroft retorted icily, staring at his mother and trying to remember how he’d ever thought the two of them were alike. When people used to compare them, praising their twin intellects and grace, saying Mycroft was the mirror image of his mother in all ways, Mycroft had been flattered. He’d idolized his mother and their relationship and wanted to be just like her. That had been his goal for years.

How had he ever believed he loved her?

“Being dramatic again, I think. None of my punishments were unduly harsh, and I should’ve carried through with them instead of listening to you. I should have guided you more, and meted out more discipline than I did. After the events of this past year, I realize how mistaken I was, thinking your intellect was unassailable and pure, faultless...”

The remark was like a punch to Mycroft’s gut. It hurt, and he struggled to hide how much he was affected from his mother.

“You’re blind when it comes to Sherlock, and hopelessly sentimental. But what I don’t understand, Mycroft…you had to know this would happen eventually. Sherlock can’t go two weeks together without getting into some sort of trouble. If you were so worried about how John would react, why did you want Sherlock to be betrothed to him in the first place?”

The short answer was that Mycroft hadn’t really wanted John betrothed to his little brother.

After he and King Watson argued over the Alpha Patronage being given to John and the marriage negotiations broke down, Mycroft resolved to leave Scotland. He didn’t want to trap Sherlock in a betrothal to a potentially brutish moron who would have the ability to control his entire life…but the night before Mycroft made the official announcement and arranged for his departure, he’d heard a soft, hesitant knock on his door.

Even with a fading bruise beneath one eye and a painful looking red lip, Queen Watson had been beautiful. Not the way his own mother was, but in a different, softer way. Nothing like her husband or son, Queen Watson’s face was open and pleasant, her friendliness quiet and understated and oddly relaxing. She looked like a person who loved to laugh and the juxtaposition in her appearance and what Mycroft knew to be true was jarring. Looking back on it now, Mycroft felt stupidly naive when he remembered the way he’d invited Queen Watson into his rooms and listened to what she had to say. But there’d been no artifice in her tone, no hint of trickery or duplicitous lies Mycroft could discern, and her explanations to his questions stilted and awkward enough to confirm they were genuine.

He’d thought about what she said after she left, long into the night.

The next morning, Mycroft made his concession, John was given the Right of Alpha Patronage, and the marriage negotiations began again.

Mycroft wished he’d never opened his godsdamn door and spoken to Queen Watson. He’d been an idiot. He’d done his best to find a good Alpha for Sherlock, someone who would treat Sherlock with kindness and love and understanding, and instead, he’d handed his little brother to an Alpha like John Watson on a godsdamn platter.

“You chose John, out of every other Alpha you’d met, and placed Sherlock in his care. If you’ve made an error in judgment by doing so, there is no one at fault but yourself.” The Queen shrugged, apathetic to Mycroft’s rising anxiety. “If John acts in a way that is inappropriate, or harms Sherlock in any way, the blame will fall to you. Won’t it? For choosing such an unsuitable Alpha for your little brother?”

A horrible numbness spread through Mycroft’s limbs as the twisted logic of his mother’s word registered. That wasn’t…how could she say…surely she didn’t really mean…

He sank weakly into the nearest chair. He supposed the blame could fall on him, but he never, in a million years, would’ve chosen John Watson if he’d known Mummy wouldn’t extend her protection. Mycroft had taken a calculated risk that the bursts of honor he’d seen from John were indicative of a deeper, more desirable personality, and he’d trusted the biased praise of John’s mother…but all the while he’d been confident that even if John _did_ turn out to be like his father, Mummy would be there to intervene and prevent anything terrible from happening. She would squash John like a bug and refuse to let him harm Sherlock.

Mycroft had been wrong.

“That will not happen though. You are not reckless, poppet.” The Queen said gently, tipping Mycroft’s face up and kissing his forehead. “Nor are you stupid. You are the most intelligent Omega I have ever known, and I am so proud of you and your brilliance. I know you used all the vast wisdom at your disposal to guide your decision when selecting Sherlock’s Alpha, and I believe you’ve made a very good choice. John is an admirable Alpha. You are wrong to doubt yourself like this.” Her fingers tightened beneath his chin, sternness stealing into her voice again. “This sudden attack of nerves is a shameful, pathetic Omega weakness that you must control. I know that you are better than this. I have raised you to behave in a level-headed manner which doesn’t allow for foolish Omega hand-wringing. That is not who you are, poppet. You will do better than this. Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have done well in selecting Sherlock’s Alpha. You will never bother me with this topic again.”

“No, ma’am.”

The Queen relaxed, the frown lines easing at her temples as she beamed at her son. “I love you so much, Mycroft. I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you.” He let himself be drawn into a hug, enveloped by his mother’s familiar scent which used to harken of safety and love and home. Now, it turned his stomach.

Mycroft left his mother and made his way to Sherlock’s room, his mind racing ahead to different scenarios and trying to decide which would be more likely and what John may do. And how Mycroft himself could possibly intervene.

Or, he thought with a flash of painful heartache, how he could comfort Sherlock afterwards and try to make his little brother feel better.

* * *

 

John wasn’t all that surprised when Sherlock’s bedroom door opened and he was met by Prince Mycroft.

The irritating Beta had tried to see him earlier, offering an apology on Sherlock’s behalf, but John had told Stamford to tell him to sod off. While John was pretty sure Stamford hadn’t said those exact words, it’d still done the job. Now Mycroft was here. He had lots of influence with his little brother and John assumed he was trying to convince Sherlock to apologize. John didn’t want another forced apology from Sherlock- or a false one by proxy.

And it annoyed him, a continual frustrating itch that crawled beneath his skin, to know that Mycroft felt the need to work on the situation. It was none of his business. This was between John and Sherlock. But Mycroft had butted his way in, attempting to smooth it all over just the way he wanted because he _thought_ he knew best.

Mycroft slipped out of Sherlock’s bedroom and shut the door, then stood in front of it. Nothing overt, but the message was clear.

John’s eyes narrowed.

“Prince John. Is there something you require?”

“I’m here to speak with Sherlock.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. At the moment, my brother is indisposed and not feeling well enough to receive visitors. You may see him another time.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. John’s hackles rose. The condescension in Mycroft’s tone was obvious, but John hadn’t traveled halfway around the godsdamned world to be ordered about by Mycroft sodding Holmes. He wasn’t going to schedule a meeting with his betrothed like a scraping courtier either. John’s chin came up and he met Mycroft’s eyes steadily.

“I will see him now.”

“I think not.”

It was brave of him, John would give him that. “Why?”

“As I have already explained, my brother is indisposed. The, ah, events of this morning have upset him and he needs to rest. Quietly. He’s an Omega, after all, and already very delicate. Anymore excitement and he would become distraught which may overthrow his health entirely. You may come back tomorrow…if he is feeling better.”

John was torn.

On the one hand, maybe he should take Mycroft’s advice and leave Sherlock alone. If the little Omega was really as upset as Mycroft said, it’d be insensitive of John to force his way in. What he wanted to say to Sherlock could wait. If Sherlock already felt bad, John didn’t want to make him feel worse.

On the other hand, John wanted to resolve their quarrel. Now. Sooner rather than later, so it wouldn’t have time to grow and grow and grow and turn into something it wasn’t. He wanted to talk to Sherlock and figure out a way to fix the problem they were in.

And as petty as it made John feel, one of the reasons he wanted to see Sherlock was because he didn’t want Mycroft Holmes to think he was cowed. Frankly, he didn’t want to obey him. Mycroft spoke with such confident finality, as if he expected John to submit, turn tail and slink back down the hall.

Fuck that.

“I would see my fiancé.” John said. “Now.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, and John hadn’t wanted to do this- he really hadn’t- but he was tired. Sore. Embarrassed. His godsdamn balls hurt. He didn’t have any politeness left for someone who wasn’t Sherlock.

“I will see Sherlock now.” He repeated, taking a step forward. “Please don’t make me remind you of our respective positions in this Court. I think we’d both find that embarrassing.”

For a second, John thought the Prince would actually hit him. A look of pure, unadulterated rage flashed across Mycroft’s face, and it was clear that he certainly thought about it, his hands curling into fists at his sides and jaw clenching. John braced himself for an attack, already resolved that he wouldn’t hit back. Not that he relished the idea of word getting out he’d been hit by _both_ Holmes brothers in the course of one morning…but despite his height, Mycroft was almost as dainty as his little brother. He was slight, with no discernable muscles, lean and flimsy looking. As much as John despised him, he didn’t want to hurt Mycroft and he knew he would if he retaliated.

No punch came, though. Mycroft’s rage was scorching- John could feel it rolling off him in waves- but ultimately impotent. Mycroft was backed into a corner, and they both knew it.

John was betrothed to the Crown Prince, next in line for the throne, and outranked Mycroft who was a Prince of Northumbria, but with no legitimate ties to the throne and who would never rule. Besides that, John was Sherlock’s Alpha Patron. He had been given all rights and legalities to Sherlock, more so than anyone else in the entire palace, save for the Queen.

There was nothing Mycroft could do, not unless he went directly to the Queen and asked her to intervene. But what would he even ask? That John not be allowed to see his betrothed? The Queen had made her opinion about John’s rights very clear that first night at dinner. John and Mycroft both knew with whom she would side.

John waited, patient, knowing what the outcome would be.

Mycroft slowly stepped to the side, expression furious, white to the lips.

“Thank you.” John reached for the door handle-

“Please, don’t hurt him.”

John froze, turning to look at Mycroft. “What?”

“Please, don’t hurt him.” Mycroft repeated quietly, avoiding John’s eyes, his own gaze fixed on a point further down the hall. He was still pale, which made it all the more obvious when an embarrassed pink tinge worked its way into his cheeks.

John stared.

“My brother…he’s never been struck before. Ever. And he’s so very small.” Mycroft nervously licked his lips, curled fists shaking at his sides. John realized he was gawping like the moron Mycroft always treated him as. But it was shocking. He’d never seen so much emotion from Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Prince of Northumbria. Privately, John hadn’t thought the man was capable of deeper feelings.

Although, as unlikely as it seemed, maybe he’d been wrong?

He knew that Sherlock was besotted with his older brother. John had listened to him talk about Mycroft on more than one occasion this past week, and while he trusted Sherlock’s judgment of his own family, he’d been unable to resolve the idea of Mycroft Holmes being a doting, warm, and loving older brother. It just didn’t seem possible.

Nevertheless, John knew how much this plea on Sherlock’s behalf was costing Mycroft. They both disliked each other. Neither wanted to scrape and bow to the other. But Mycroft would if it was to protect Sherlock.

Something inside John shifted with the knowledge. Just a bit. The tiniest fraction.

“If you…require punishment for what Sherlock’s done…which you have every right to do. No one is disputing that. There are other ways. I…I can help you…if you so wish…to devise an alternative solution. Just. Please, don’t...” Mycroft paused, closing his eyes and sighing. “He means the world to me. Please, don’t hurt him.”

John had no intentions of hurting Sherlock. It made him angry that Mycroft thought he did. But he forced himself to be rational. They didn’t know him all that well yet. None of them. Mycroft had seen the way John’s father handled discipline. It was natural of him to assume that John would be the same. And Mycroft clearly loved his brother. He didn’t want Sherlock subjected to that sort of cruelty.

Neither did John.

Which made it that much worse that everyone in the whole godsdamn palace thought John was going to beat Sherlock with his own practice sword. When Stamford told him the rumors that were swirling, John had been incredulous…then furious. He wasn’t a monster. If he didn’t beat Sherlock with his sword, the rumors were that he’d definitely leave a few bruises behind to teach the Omega his place.

Disgusting. Ridiculous. Abhorrent.

John wanted to give Sherlock no punishment at all, just to prove everyone wrong. He couldn’t, of course. He had to be seen as doing something, and that was one of the problems he needed to discuss with Sherlock.

“I have no plans to hurt Sherlock.” John said, making himself be calm. “I’d never want to hurt him. Today…at the training yard…I didn’t mean for what happened to have…um. Happened.” He admitted.

“What are your plans then?”

It was on the tip of John’s tongue to tell Mycroft it was none of his sodding business. “I dunno really. Thought I’d talk about that with Sherlock and we’d come up with something…after I got done apologizing that is.”

Mycroft opened his eyes and gave John a suspicious look. “Why would you apologize to Sherlock?”

“Because I hurt him.”

“But...but _he_ hurt _you_.” Mycroft argued, turning to John and frowning at him incredulously. “He kicked you in the testic- in a very. Private area. Then threw his sword at your head. He missed, of course, but the intent was still quite clear….”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I was there.” He quipped, but Mycroft’s frown stayed in place. “I sort of don’t think Sherlock would’ve done that if I hadn’t done what I did. So…I’m going to apologize. It wasn’t his fault really. I shouldn’t have...” He shrugged again. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Not to Mycroft anyway.

He turned back to the door, wanting to get this over with, but Mycroft apparently had more to say.

“John?”

Gods. Mycroft _always_ had more to say, didn’t he? The man just loved to hear himself talk. If he asked to be allowed inside Sherlock's room while John talked with the Omega, he'd have to refuse. “What?”

Mycroft paused, then- “Your mother told me that you were kind.”

“ _What_?” The bottom dropped out of John’s stomach and he spun around. “What did you say? What do you mean? When did you speak to her?” He demanded, shaking, angrier than he’d been in a long time. Mycroft had no right…he shouldn’t…what the hell did he know about anything…why had he spoken to her…John hadn’t spoken to her in months…

“I spoke to her last year, when I was in Scotland brokering the marriage contract.” Mycroft explained quickly, obviously realizing John’s upset and holding up a placating hand. “When the negotiations stalled, she sought me out one night on her own. She said that she’d heard you were to be betrothed to Sherlock, removed from Scotland to Northumbria, and she wanted to ask me about the particulars of the betrothal. When she heard I planned to leave, she…persuaded me otherwise.”

John remembered when the negotiations had come to a halt, his father and Mycroft each refusing to budge an inch on the subject of John’s Right of Alpha Patronage. John had suspected that would be the end of the betrothal…and he’d been just as surprised as everyone else when one morning, seemingly out of the blue, Mycroft conceded the point to King Watson. John was given Alpha Patronage. The negotiations began again. John always wondered what changed Mycroft’s mind.

Now he knew.

John desperately wanted to hear everything his mother had said about him. He physically ached to know…

“She said that you were kind.” Mycroft divulged, keeping his voice low as if John were a wounded animal he was trying to calm. Maybe he was, John thought rashly, as his whole body vibrated with the need to do something. _Something_. He couldn't stand here and listen to this. He couldn't.

He was rooted to the spot.

“She said that you were not like your father. You were a good son. A good man. A good Alpha. She told me about your honor, and the ways you’d helped her through the years. She said that if I chose you for my brother, it would be a decision I’d never regret.”

John couldn’t speak. His throat was closed up. He hated Mycroft for doing this to him, for telling him these things.

He pursed his lips, blinking hard at the ceiling. He’d never be able to tell Mycroft how much this meant to him.

“I believe she was right.”


	3. Chapter 3

_The Event_

“Harder!”

Their swords loudly clack-clack-clacked, the sound echoing off the buildings surrounding the training yard, reverberating oddly in the cool morning air, before John and Sherlock separated. John hadn’t broken a sweat and his grip on his sword didn’t waver, solid as a rock- but Sherlock’s hair was plastered to his forehead, the ends dripping with sweat, and he panted for air, each breath labored with a combination of exhaustion and fury.

“Try again! Harder!”

_ThwackThwackThwack-_

“Harder! Come on, Sherlock, harder than that!”

It was tedious beyond belief to sit morning after morning for hours at a time and watch his little brother spar with John Watson. Not only were the exercises repetitive, but John insisted on taking Sherlock through them over…and over…and over, until Mycroft was gasping with boredom. It wasn’t exactly the ideal start to his day, and Mycroft supposed his presence wasn’t really necessary; however, he refused to miss a single practice. He wanted to make sure Sherlock didn’t get injured, either accidentally or on purpose.

“Sherlock, I know you can hit harder than that. You’ve done all week…”

Mycroft thought John was rather harsh in his methods. Not that Mycroft knew anything about sword fighting or training or proper drilling techniques, but the way John shouted and lectured at Sherlock was tough. Unrelenting. Mycroft didn’t like it. But he’d seen Captain Lestrade treat his own soldiers much the same way- if not, on some occasions, worse- and he supposed it was just the way of things.

“No- Sherlock! Remember. How I showed you. _This_ way…not that.”

Mycroft was fervently glad his mother had refused to let him be trained with weapons. Shortly after Lestrade was appointed Captain of the Prince’s Guard, he’d requested the Queen’s permission to train Mycroft. He’d gone on and on about various threats, the dangers Mycroft faced because he didn’t know how to fight, and how Mycroft needed to be prepared in case he was ever attacked so he could defend himself.

The Queen had arched an eyebrow and coldly reminded Captain Lestrade that her son’s safety was his responsibility. If he were not up to the task, she added, he needed to inform her so she could remove him from the positon and find another Alpha who would do the job properly.

“No, Your Majesty.” Captain Lestrade had replied, voice clipped and respectful- but Mycroft, all of fourteen years old, could tell the Alpha was irritated. “I can protect the Prince.”

“See that you do. Mycroft is not responsible for his own safety- you are. Your role as Captain is to ensure the Prince’s well-being, and I shall hold you personally responsible if anything were to ever happen to him.”

Over the years, Captain Lestrade had never given Mycroft reason to doubt his ability to protect him. Mycroft trusted the Alpha with his life. He never felt so safe as he did when he was with the Captain.

“Come on, Sherlock. You’re not trying hard enough!”

Mycroft thought his little brother deserved some compassion and a break. Sherlock had never done hard work in his life, and after days of intensive training, his muscles were sore. Every movement seemed to hurt, especially when he lifted his arms, and his hands looked terrible. There were blisters formed on his palms and fingers, and shiny raw patches which Mycroft had looked at in disapproval.

When he’d mentioned Sherlock’s injures to Captain Lestrade as they watched the two boys spar, he could tell from the Alpha’s expression that he didn’t like the way of things either.

“You don’t approve of how John is training Sherlock.” Mycroft said flatly, and the Captain, stood at attention near his side, shrugged, looking torn.

“Yes…and no.”

That wasn’t an answer and Mycroft turned to him in irritation. As he did so, the hard, unforgiving seat made his arse twinge- and he abruptly remembered the wonderfully rough way the Captain had taken him the previous night. He’d reached orgasm with Gregory’s hand wrapped around his cock, biting his lip to keep from moaning, but instead of stopping the Alpha had kept thrusting, _hard_ , so hard that Mycroft finally wailed from the overstimulation, and Gregory had pulled out with a groan, coming on the bedding…

Mycroft kept his expression as neutral as possible, hoping the blush riding high on his cheeks didn’t give away the direction of his thoughts. “Which is it, Captain? Do you approve or not?” He snapped, his tone ruder than he’d meant. He was instantly regretful when Captain Lestrade’s jaw clenched and he looked away from him, eyes flicking to where John was demonstrating a basic parry.

“I approve, _Your Highness,_ because it’s how I’d train one of my soldiers. You have to learn to push through the pain and discomfort to become tough. A better fighter.”

“ _But_?”

“But…I don’t approve of John’s methods because…it’s Sherlock. I don’t know. Maybe I’m biased. Maybe John’s doing it right, pushing Sherlock the way he’s doing, but if it were me…”

“Yes?”

“I’d go gentler with him. Sherlock’s weak.” He gave Mycroft an apologetic look, but he motioned for him to continue. “Guess there’s no getting around that. He is weak. Arms no bigger than that- which can be changed- but it takes time to build muscle. He could go at a slower pace and still learn. It’s not as if John’s training him to become a soldier.”

Mycroft mentioned this to Sherlock after practice, letting him know what Captain Lestrade had said and kindly suggesting that since John obviously wasn’t going to relent perhaps it’d be better if Sherlock just gave up. It’d been the wrong thing to say. Sherlock had snapped at Mycroft to mind his own business and remained furious at him the rest of the day, glaring whenever they were in the same room and flicking his peas across the dinner table when no one was looking. Which Mycroft had thought was very childish. There was no call for Sherlock to behave that way.

Mycroft was only trying to _help_.

“You’re not following through with the attack!”

_ThwackThwackThwack_

“No, not like that! Lean into it, Sherlock.”

Mycroft thought John could be more encouraging. Sherlock was trying his best. A little praise wouldn’t be amiss.

“Not that way. Do it the way I’ve shown you…”

_ThwackThwackThwack_

“You have to put force behind the strike or it won’t matter.”

_ThwackThwackThwack_

“You’ve got to hit harder…harder! Why aren’t you trying harder?”

Sherlock went white with anger. He marched towards John-

Mycroft realized what Sherlock was going to do a split second before it happened. He leapt to his feet- not even sure of what he would do- and beside him Captain Lestrade grabbed the hilt of his sword, not seeing the danger which had alarmed Mycroft but at the ready-

There was nothing either of them could do. Sherlock drew back his foot and kicked, as hard as he could, and his foot landed, with perfect accuracy, at the juncture between John’s legs. The effect was immediate. John shouted in surprise, crumpling to the dirt in pain while Sherlock stood over him, fists clenched.

“Was that hard enough for you, John?” He spat angrily, voice carrying in the sudden quiet of the yard, everyone stopping what they were doing to watch the spectacle. “I’ll do it again, if you want. And _again_! And _again_!” He snarled while John writhed on the ground, forehead pressed against the dirt, trying to breath through the pain. “I wouldn’t have agreed to train with you in the first place if I’d known you were going to act like such a…such a…a knothead!”

Mycroft closed his eyes in mortified horror, unable to believe this was happening- but Sherlock wasn’t done yet. He took a step back and flung his wooden practice sword at John. It might have caused real damage- practice swords, while dull, were weighted like real ones – but Sherlock was tired and his muscles weak and so his aim was off. The sword stabbed into the dirt to John’s left, gouging a hole in the ground before wobbling to the side and falling, bouncing and sending clouds of dust flying.

Sherlock pivoted on his heel and ran out of the yard. He tore past Greg and Mycroft without looking at either of them- and they were both too surprised to stop him.

Mycroft had never been so stunned in his entire life.

Ever.

And he had no one to blame but himself, he distantly thought. He’d been the one to teach Sherlock how to do such a thing. Years ago.

Since the Queen refused to let Mycroft be trained with weapons, Captain Lestrade had secretly taught him a few basic self-defense maneuvers, one of which was designed to cause an Alpha the most pain possible.

“Which, you probably know what I’m talking about, how badly it can hurt.” Captain Lestrade had said, assuming Mycroft knew how being hit in the testicles felt. Which was fair. That was when he still thought Mycroft was a Beta.

In reality, Mycroft hadn’t had a clue what Lestrade meant. He’d pretended he had though. It wasn’t difficult. Alphas (and Betas) had testicles. Testicles were sensitive (apparently). Causing an Alpha’s testicles pain was a proven way of immobilizing them and making an escape.

It’d seemed an easy tactic. Much better than struggling with a sword or dagger and possibly getting blood on his hands. And worlds more efficient than engaging in hand-to-hand combat like Captain Lestrade tried teaching him, of which Mycroft had been terrible. Not that he’d tried very hard in the first place. Mycroft had always hated exertion.

So Captain Lestrade instructed Mycroft that if an Alpha ever attacked and he was all alone, or if the Captain couldn’t get to Mycroft in time, to kick the Alpha in the testicles. As hard as possible. Injure them, he’d said, and keep kicking if he needed to, but once should be enough.

Thus far, Mycroft had never used the technique…but he’d taught it to Sherlock. He thought it was good knowledge to have. Very practical. One never knew when they might need to use it.

Mycroft felt that Sherlock’s current use of the technique was spectacularly inappropriate.

John was still on the ground, and Mycroft didn’t know whether he should go and offer assistance (or if John would even accept the help) or run after Sherlock, give him the lecture of his life, and bring him back to apologize. He was still reeling from what Sherlock had done.

He didn’t know if he would actually ever recover.

John finally staggered to his feet with a wince, brushing the dust from his trousers before grabbing up Sherlock’s practice sword. Furious, he gripped it at each end, breathing heavily, hunched forward around the throbbing pain from his testicles. Mycroft waited for the wood to crack, for John to break the sword and fling the pieces in different directions, then stalk after Sherlock. Mycroft was already planning on how he could circumvent John and perhaps delay his wrath from affecting Sherlock until the next day when he’d had enough time to cool down-

John stared at the sword, tensing his muscles- then hesitated. Did a double take. Blinked. He brought the handle of the sword closer to his face and squinted at it, before scratching his thumb over something on the hilt. His finger came away stained faintly with red. He stood motionless in the middle of the practice yard, holding Sherlock’s sword, staring at the somewhat bloodied hilt where Sherlock’s palms had scraped, blisters rupturing, staining the wood…

He didn’t seem to be aware he was causing a scene.

Everyone was staring at him with bated breath, waiting for his reaction. Shouting. Cursing. Throwing the sword or breaking it. Demanding that Sherlock be brought back to the yard for his punishment. Declaring the betrothal off- or something equally dramatic.

John did none of those things.

He sighed, shoulders slumping and all the anger suddenly leeched out of him, leaving him deflated. He turned and slowly (limping and a bit bowlegged) made his way out of the yard.

Mycroft watched him go, already devising an apology in his head. He would leave Sherlock to contemplate what he’d done, and go see John himself to smooth everything over.

* * *

 

“Sherlock. I believe you and I need to have a talk.”

Sherlock glanced anxiously at John, surprised that he’d closed the door. It was brazen of him. They weren’t allowed, per the marriage contract, to ever be alone together. Unsupervised. Not until they were married. There was always a chaperone present, usually Mrs. Hudson. No one knew he and John had inadvertently met after the ball and spent a glorious few hours together.

Alone.

Sherlock wanted to keep it that way. Not only to avoid getting in trouble (he wasn’t sure what could be done even if it was after the fact but didn’t want to find out), but also because it felt very personal. They’d shared something unusual and pleasant that evening, and since he hadn’t known if or when he and John would ever have another private moment together, he’d wanted to keep it just between them. He’d hoped their next private encounter would be more agreeable than this: John coming to visit him intent on punishment after Sherlock had kicked John, shouted abuse, and then thrown his sword at his head.

It was still surprising that they were being left alone. It wasn’t allowed. Mycroft had been very, _very_ clear about that. There were _consequences_ in the marriage contract.

With a sinking feeling, Sherlock realized John probably no longer cared about things like that if they weren’t going to be married anymore.

Or…the less pleasant alternative…if John were here to punish him…physically…with violence…he would want to do so behind a locked door…so no one could intervene…

Sherlock thought he was going to throw up. He was glad his hands were hidden in the bowl of green tea because it made it less noticeable that they were shaking. John’s footfalls were muffled by the carpet as he crossed the room, and the tension seemed to rise higher with every step. It was hard for Sherlock to breathe. The air was heavy. Suffocating. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the birds outside the open windows. It was deathly quiet.

Where had Mrs. Hudson gone?

He wondered if Mycroft was still outside in the hallway. Would he come if Sherlock called for him? Was he allowed? Had John forbade him from interfering? Sherlock thought about calling for him anyway. He wanted his brother with him- even if Mycroft couldn’t stop John or protect Sherlock from whatever terrible thing John chose as his punishment. He just wanted Mycroft there to make him feel better.

But Mycroft was already worried for Sherlock. It’d be mean of him to force Mycroft to witness his punishment firsthand. He should spare his brother that, and try to be brave. Mycroft loved him so much. He did everything he could for Sherlock. Sherlock could do this for him.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes fixed on the bowl of tea as John came to a stop beside his chair. He knew John could see how he was shaking. The green tea sloshed against the sides, ripples shivering across the surface-

“May I see?”

Sherlock darted an alarmed look at the hand John had extended. He’d never noticed how large and strong John’s hands were, especially when compared to his own. Was this going to be part of his punishment? He was already in pain. Would John take his hands and squeeze to make the blisters throb and hurt even more? Demonstrate to Sherlock how strong he really was? Did he want to hurt Sherlock like he’d hurt John that morning?

It was his right. No one would fault John for it-

“Please?”

Sherlock shakily lifted his hands from the tea. He expected John to grab at them once they were offered, raising them up to his own level and forcing Sherlock to stand so he could see. Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, prepared to spring up and hopefully save himself the strain of having his arms wrenched upward.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat when John unexpectedly sank to his knees beside his chair and gently accepted his wet hands. The tea dripped onto John’s trousers, staining the fabric, but he didn’t seem to notice as he held Sherlock’s hands with the barest of pressures so as not to hurt him further, taking in the raw places and blisters.

“I’m very sorry, Sherlock.”

“Wh-what for?” Sherlock asked, bewildered. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one apologizing?

And he would apologize. He’d decided that while Mycroft was speaking to John in the hallway. He’d apologize to John as prettily as he could, and hopefully spare himself any really terrible punishment.

“I’m sorry because you told me your hands were hurting earlier this week, but I didn’t listen. I ignored what you said because this was the way I was taught sword fighting.” He indicated Sherlock’s wet hands. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the only way for someone to learn…or the way I should’ve done with you.”

Sherlock silently agreed, but he kept his opinion to himself. John let go of his hands and held out his own so Sherlock could see all of the rough places and callouses accumulated over the years.

“Growing up, the way I was taught things was…harsh. I knew that. And I should’ve known better than to do the same to you. You’re so delicate.” He picked up Sherlock’s hands again, feeling at the fine bones beneath his pale skin, looking miserable. “You’re _so_ delicate. I should’ve…I didn’t think...” He huffed. “I went about this all wrong, pushing you the way I did this week. I take responsibility for what happened because I know I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, though. I really didn’t. I don’t want to hurt you, Sherlock.”

“Do you…plan to hurt me?” Sherlock asked, his hesitant question barely above a breath. He wondered if this conversation were going in another direction than the one it seemed. Was all of this a lead up to John telling him how he would be punished: _“I don’t want to hurt you, Sherlock…but…”?_

“No!” John recoiled. “Gods, no! Sherlock, this…this was a mistake. A fucking stupid mistake on my part, but that’s what it was. I promise. I don’t ever want to be the reason for you suffering. In any way. Either now or…or later. When we’re. Married.” He sighed, looking at Sherlock’s hands dejectedly before carefully lowering them back into the bowl of tea. “I behaved like an arse this week, thinking I knew best when I didn’t. If you think about it like that, what happened this morning…what you did, I mean, was uh…maybe a bit warranted.”

Sherlock knew his mouth was hanging open. He made a conscious decision to shut it, but he continued to stare at John in total dismay. “Wh…what?”

“This was my fault.” John gave him a wretched smile which strangely made Sherlock want to hold his hand again. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t have time to figure it out as John kept talking.

“This was my fault for not teaching you how to sword fight properly, and for being insensitive about your hands. I’m sorry….and it’s fine that you no longer want to train with me. I understand. Really. It’s fine. I won’t be…I dunno. Mad or disappointed or upset or anything. I want you to do what you want- however, I hope that doesn’t involve throwing anymore swords at my head.” He joked, but it was a feeble attempt and fell flat. “You can if you think I deserve it though.” He added wryly when Sherlock only continued to stare at him, slack jawed and confused.

He struggled to respond. It was hard. At the moment, it was beyond him. All his thoughts were jumbled, his feelings a muddled, disordered chaos he had no hope of unraveling. John was waiting for him to say something though, looking expectant. Sherlock licked his lips, blinking rapidly, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed his mouth. Tried again. Still nothing. He pressed his lips together and blinked at John a bit more.

John perceptibly sagged. He sighed, standing from his crouch, and gave Sherlock a smile which wasn’t able to fully hide his disappointment.

“So. I just wanted to tell you. All that.”

Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it. Settled for nodding.

John bowed and turned to leave.

Leave. He was leaving.

John was leaving?

“Wait!” Sherlock set aside the bowl of tea and hurried after him.

“What?”

“But…I thought…aren’t…aren’t you supposed to…punish me?” He was insane for bringing it up. If John had forgotten about it, Sherlock shouldn’t remind him. He didn’t want to be punished. He should just let John leave and feel thankful nothing had happened. But he didn’t understand. He was so confused.

“I’m supposed to, yes.” John admitted, and the nervous, fluttering in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach came to life again. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “But I’m not going to.”

“You’re…not?”

“Um. No, I’m not.” John fidgeted on the balls of his feet, rocking forwards and back, hands clasped behind his back and looking everywhere in the room but at Sherlock. “Everyone expects me to punish you, and I know I’m supposed to since I’m your Patron. But. I’d rather not. If it’s all the same to you. I mean, this was my fault. Like I said. And while I didn’t exactly _like_ how you, uh, retaliated…I might’ve deserved it. A bit. Anyway,” He flashed Sherlock another brief smile. “since you’re not training with me anymore- which is I guess what you meant when you flung your sword at me- we can just say that’s your punishment. Let everyone think I’m refusing to train you. Leave it at that. Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t know what to say. John had sought him out. Not to punish, but to apologize. He’d been kind, just as he’d been the entire time Sherlock had known him- barring their training sessions. He’d sincerely made promises to Sherlock that it was obvious he wanted to keep. His intentions were in the right place. He’d given Sherlock an easy way out of being punished, saying what had happened that morning was his fault, shouldering all the blame.

Watching John walk to the door, no longer fearful of cruel discipline, Sherlock could admit that wasn’t _entirely_ true. This morning hadn’t only been John’s fault. Sherlock could’ve talked to John more about how he felt. He could’ve been more forceful about how much his hands were hurting instead of trying to impress John by being stoic. John allowed him to do what he wanted. He didn’t order Sherlock to train with swords- he hadn’t ordered Sherlock to do a damn thing so far. Sherlock could’ve just put his foot down and told John he wanted a break. It was his fault just as much as John’s.

Maybe- and that was a _big_ maybe- Sherlock was _slightly_ more at fault than John.

 _Maybe_.

Sherlock darted forward. “John.”

“Yes?”

Sherlock smiled nervously, his heart pounding out of his chest, then extended his hand. It shook slightly, dripping tea onto the carpeting, and he hoped John understood what he meant by the gesture. He didn’t want to have to explain. He actually wasn’t sure if he could.

It took a few seconds, John looking from Sherlock’s hand to his face, puzzled- then he understood. The first real smile Sherlock had seen from John all day broke over his face, eyes lighting up with happiness and relief and joy and Sherlock-

Sherlock fell in love.

John carefully took his hand, kissing Sherlock’s wrist just as he’d done the day of their betrothal, confirming Sherlock’s display of trust in him with one of his own. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He breathed, the words fervent with sincerity, and Sherlock’s stomach twisted. He felt as if he were going to throw up again, and this time it wasn’t from fear but for an entirely different reason.

“You’re welcome, John.”

They beamed at each other dopily. John was still holding his hand. Sherlock felt happy, lighter than air with relief. They shared a moment of perfect understanding and Sherlock was struggling to understand just exactly _what that understanding was_ when the silence was broken by the loud growling of his stomach.

John laughed, the sort of near hysterical laughter one usually has after a wrenching, emotional upheaval. “Hungry?”

“A bit.” Sherlock blushed, shamefacedly taking back possession of his hand.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Sherlock shook his head. John sighed, patting at his curls apologetically, and Sherlock felt the thrill from the contact tingle all the way down to his toes, which curled against the carpet.

“I’ll go and let you eat your lunch in peace, then.”

“You could stay” Sherlock offered, nonchalant, trying to hide how much that was what he really, really wanted. They’d just had their first row as a couple, then made up in a very nice way, and Sherlock felt they should celebrate. What better way than with a lovely lunch and more time spent together? Secretly, he hoped that every row he had with John in the future made him feel this good at the end of it. “Mrs. Hudson can bring us lunch and we’ll eat right here…if you’d like.”

“Yes. I’d like. Very much.”

* * *

 

“I just assumed you wouldn’t want to train with me anymore. I dunno. Throwing your sword at my head seemed to make it obvious.” John explained, before giving Mrs. Hudson an appreciative nod as she set the dishes of hot food on the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This all looks wonderful.”

“I thought the two of you may be hungry.” She winked, giving each boy a sly smile. “Fighting always makes you ravenous. Doesn’t it? All those emotions running high. I remember my husband, gods rest him, was always starving after we’d had a row. Of course, before we ate he’d want to…well. I suppose the two of your have already made up. In your own way. Haven’t you?”

“Yes.” John demurred, staring hard at his plate while his ears turned pink. Sherlock glanced at him, confused by his reaction, then at his nanny who tittered. She pinched at John’s cheek.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Alpha blush as much as you, dear.”

John’s brows lowered and he dodged when she tried pinching his other cheek. Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to mind.

“It’s sweet. I can see why Sherlock likes you so much-“

“ _Mrs. Hudson_!” Sherlock snapped, his own ears turning pink while John’s deepened to a brilliant red. “Don’t you have something to be doing?”

“No, not really. I thought I’d stay here and visit with the two of you. Perhaps have a cuppa-“

“ _Why don’t you go and find something then_.” He growled through clenched teeth. It was not a suggestion and Mrs. Hudson huffed, offended. She spun on her heels and marched away, slamming the door behind her on the way out, leaving Sherlock and John in awkward silence. They occupied themselves with filling up their plates, giving it more attention than needed so they could avoid looking at each other a while longer, then picked at their food, too embarrassed to eat. Finally, John cleared his throat.

“Um. Well. As I was saying. I didn’t think you’d want to keep training with me. Not after this morning.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock said, even though it wasn’t fine. It was far, far from fine. Now that he and John were no longer fighting, and John had apologized and understood what he’d done wrong, Sherlock wanted to continue training. He didn’t think he had the right to ask though. Not after what he’d done. “If you’d rather not train me I understand-“

“No! I didn’t say that. It was just…after what happened.” John shrugged. “No, I’d like for us to still train together…I enjoyed it.”

“You did?”

John concentrated on spearing a bit of potato with the tines of his fork, giving it his entire focus. “Yes.”

Sherlock looked down at his lap, folding his napkin over and over until it was a smooth, white strip. He then spent a while unfolding it and spreading the cloth out flat again. “I enjoyed it too.” He said quietly. “Before you started acting like an arsehole, I mean.”

“I’ll try and not do that again.” John promised and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. He almost dribbled soup out of his mouth trying to smile, and he blushed, wiped his chin with his wrinkled napkin, and resolved to stop looking at John.

“But that means we have a problem.” John continued. “I thought that if you didn’t want to train anymore, it’d be a neat little punishment to tell everyone about. But if we keep training, we’ll need to think of something else. I really can’t be seen doing nothing. If I don’t, we both come out of this looking bad. You, for not getting proper correction and everyone will start saying you’re an unruly Omega or some other shit, and me being a weak Alpha and not able to control you.”

“People are stupid.” Sherlock muttered and John nodded, sitting back in his seat.

“Very.”

“Do you have anything in mind?” He asked, rather hesitant now that they were discussing a possible punishment. He knew now that John wouldn’t hurt him, but Sherlock still didn’t relish the thoughts of being disciplined.

“Mm. Sort of. I mean, obviously I’m not going to _actually_ punish you. Not only because it’s a stupid fucking thing to do, but also because I think we agreed that we were both at fault this morning-”

“You more than me.” Sherlock retorted stiffly, arching his brows at John who grinned, shaking his head.

“Yeah, alright. I did say that. It was more my fault than yours. Either way, we have to be seen as doing something. I sort of thought we could do what me and my mother used to do when my father was being a prick.”

“Which was?”

“Fool him into thinking we were really being punished.”

“How?”

“We had our ways.” John said evasively before clearing his throat and changing the subject. “But I dunno exactly what you and I could do. That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet.”

“Mm.” Sherlock turned the problem over in his mind, examining it from all angles. “It could work, I suppose. Mycroft always says that the real truth doesn’t matter, only what people believe is true.”

John agreed, and they spent the rest of their meal tossing ideas back and forth, entertaining and then dismissing each one for one reason or the other.

“Maybe we’re thinking of this wrong.” John said as they moved from the nook where they’d eaten to the open windows, sitting on the wide seats so they could enjoy the cool breeze and sun. “We need to choose something you won’t mind having done. I mean. What’s something you dislike?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother gave me your daily schedule earlier this week, listing all your lessons and hobbies and things. Out of all that, which part do you hate the most? I could maybe take that away, forbid you from attending…I dunno. Geography lessons or something. That way I’m seen as doing something, you get ‘correction’, and no longer have to do something you didn’t like in the first place.”

It was a neat solution. Sherlock could answer without even thinking about it too. “Etiquette lessons.” He said. “I _hate_ etiquette lessons.”

John made a disgusted face. “Oh, gods.”

“You’ve had them too?”

“Yeah, of course. Seems like it’s required for all the nobility really- and they were terrible. My tutor was this old Omega who’d never been married or bonded. I think all he lived for was knowing all the stupid little bows and titles and shit. Whenever I got something wrong, he’d rap my knuckles with his pointer stick. Wanted to kill myself instead of sit through his lesson every afternoon, but didn’t have a choice. So you really hate them?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_.” His tutor wasn’t as bad as John’s sounded, but he still hated being taught all the boring protocols and formalities, the correct bows and addresses. He’d much rather be doing…Well. _Anything_ _else_.

“That’s actually perfect.” John grinned, leaning forward on his bench and Sherlock found himself automatically mirroring him excitedly. “You hating etiquette lessons is perfect. Especially considering what you did. Alright. Let’s say I forbid you from attending etiquette lessons from now on. Yeah?”

_“Yes, please.”_

John laughed. “Alright. So I forbid you from attending etiquette lessons. I say that your teacher’s awful because you obviously haven’t learned anything. Look at the horrible way you behave!” He exclaimed in a pretend outrage and Sherlock giggled. “It looks like I’m doing something- you’re receiving appropriate discipline and I’m being the arsehole everyone wants me to be. And.” He added. “I’ll tell everyone that you’re spending that time with me instead, being taught proper etiquette and how one should treat their Alpha.”

Sherlock hesitated. “You won’t…really? Will you?”

“Gods, no! We’ll just pretend that’s what we’re doing, and lay low for a couple hours every afternoon until everyone forgets about it. And. Um.” John was suddenly very interested in staring out the window and Sherlock craned his neck to see what was so fascinating. He didn’t see anything though. “Uh. Just to be clear, you won’t actually have to spend that time with me. Not if you don’t want. I’ll tell everyone we’re together, but we can go our separate ways. It’ll be fine. Just so long as you’re not seen…”

Sherlock sank back onto his seat, heart fluttering in a way that was rather worrisome. His palms started to sweat, making his blisters sting, and he blotted them gingerly on the legs of his trousers. “I…I wouldn’t mind spending that time with you. Of course, I suppose you have much better things to do than waste all that time with me, and it’ll probably be boring, but…but we could maybe find things to keep ourselves entertained. I could take us to nice places to hide during those times,” He offered, hating the plaintive tone in his voice which made it sound like he was begging. “and I’d show you around the palace. If you’d like.”

John glanced at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

Sherlock thought about lying. John probably didn’t want to spend so much time with him. It’d be selfish of Sherlock to force him. He should tell John that no, he’d really prefer they go their separate ways as John had said. That way, John would feel better about leaving Sherlock on his own.

But it was too tempting, the idea of spending all that time with John. Alone. Just the two of them.

“Yes, that’s what I’d prefer.” Sherlock murmured, and John nodded, then went back to looking out of the window.

* * *

 

It’d been a very confusing, exhausting morning for John. He had a headache, his balls were still hurting, and he just…needed some time to himself to…process.

And nap.

Sherlock walked him to the door of his bedroom and they uncomfortably said goodbye, shuffling their feet and not looking at each other.

“We’ll suspend your sword training for a while.” John said before he left. “Your hands really do need time to heal. It’s normal to get blisters, but yours have gotten rather bad. We’ll take a break for a week, until all this calms down and your hands heal. Then we’ll start training again.”

“Alright.” Sherlock hesitated, but he was helpless to ask his next question. “Do you really think I can learn how to sword fight?”

“Yes.” John said simply. “Of course you can learn. But it’s going to be painful.” He nodded to Sherlock’s hands. “I’m not trying to hurt you, and we’ll go slower than we have been, but it’s just the way it has to be. You could fight with gloves, but what happens if you get caught and need to defend yourself and don’t have your gloves? You won’t fight as well. It’s better, and more practical, to learn this way.”

That made sense. Sherlock nodded. “I don’t really mind the blisters. When I was learning violin, I had to develop callouses. I know it hurts. But you…this week…you didn’t seem to care…”

John studied the little boy in front of him, Sherlock’s curly head ducked and hiding his face. He hated that Sherlock thought he didn’t care. He did, but it was only…

“No, I cared.” He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Sherlock had blisters. _Everyone_ got blisters, especially when they did strenuous training for the first time. But he needed to keep in mind that Sherlock, for all that he was brilliant, was still a child and an Omega who had been pampered all his life. He supposed Sherlock needed to be coddled. A bit. “I’ll do better from now on.” He pledged, and Sherlock glanced up at him.

“It won’t slow down my progress?”

“It will a little, but not by much, and we’ll keep with it. You’re a quick learner. I was very proud of you this week at practice.”

John would’ve had to be _blind_ to miss the way Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the praise- even though the delight was quickly hidden. John pursed his lips, an idea taking shape.

“You know…um. For someone who’s never held a weapon before, you’re really talented.”

“Really?” Another obvious reaction: Sherlock’s eyes shone with sudden joy and he wriggled slightly.

Gods, he was fucking adorable. John’s chest hurt, and he kept his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t do something stupid- like reach out and touch Sherlock again. “Yeah. You did well.”

One more wriggle, a half-smile, and a pretty pink flush high on his cheekbones. John felt a rush of overwhelming affection for the little boy and he made a vow that he’d shower Sherlock with as much praise and warmth as he possibly could during training. It wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

John didn’t want to examine the reason why. 

"I’ll see you at dinner.” He bowed, surprised when Sherlock extended his hand for him to kiss his wrist again. He did, pretending his didn’t feel the way Sherlock’s pulse leaped beneath his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember my first crush when I was in middle school. It was terrible. Poor Sherlock, but at least he has a crush on a very understanding person :)
> 
> And also, if you came for the Mystrade, fear not! The next chapter will hopefully make up for the lack thus far ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_“What do you mean it’s a secret?”_

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft’s indignant interruption, but he was too happy for the expression to linger. He held still while Mrs. Hudson finished lacing up the sleeve of his tunic so he could go down to dinner, and gave Mycroft a mischievous grin in the mirror. “A secret is when two people share the same intelligence which is meant to be kept hidden from everyone else.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened and it took every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from shouting at his maddening little brother. “ _I know what a secret is_.” He ground out. “What I _meant_ was- which you knew _perfectly well_ \- was what do you mean you and John are keeping your punishment a secret?”

“We’re just keeping it a secret.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to.”

The urge to shout at Sherlock rose exponentially. Mycroft, already dressed for the evening, sat on Sherlock’s bed and glowered darkly at the little idiot. Sherlock positively squirmed with delight at holding something over Mycroft’s head. Mycroft’s frown deepened.

He was happy when Sherlock was happy. All he ever wanted was Sherlock’s well-being, and for him to be cheerful and content. He watched Sherlock hop down from the stool he’d been standing on and practically skip across the room to fetch his boots. He was giddy. Flushed with delight. It was the complete opposite of how he’d been earlier…and all because John Watson had come and spent a few hours with him.

And apparently told him to keep secrets from his own brother.

Mycroft didn’t know why the sight of Sherlock’s obvious happiness bothered him. It was very perplexing because he should be just as pleased as his little brother. Everything had gone well. All their fears about John Watson and what terrible things he may do were put to rest. The two boys were no longer fighting. Peace was once again restored. And Sherlock was so happy. Mycroft was always happy when Sherlock was happy.

Except now, the sight of Sherlock beaming as he pranced about his room, going on and on about John Watson, instead of making Mycroft smile in fond delight, caused a sharp pang beneath his breastbone. He rubbed at his chest, only half-listening as Sherlock prattled about what he and John had eaten for lunch and how he’d convinced John to try a cup of green tea and how John had said it was the foulest thing he’d ever drank and that it tasted like grass and then Sherlock had asked him how he knew what grass tasted like and he said…

Mycroft didn’t think he’d be so bothered about it if Sherlock weren’t insisting on keeping secrets from him. If he would just tell him what he and John had decided for Sherlock’s punishment, Mycroft would be satisfied. Mycroft had thought he’d known the whole of it earlier when he heard Sherlock’s etiquette teacher would be dismissed and that henceforth Sherlock be instructed by John.

But when Mycroft asked Sherlock about it, just to make sure it was alright with him, Sherlock had replied:

“Oh, yes. John and I decided that’s my punishment. Or rather, we decided it’s what we’re going to tell everyone is my punishment.”

“What do you mean- what you’re going to tell everyone?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.” Sherlock had said, eyes sparkling with unconcealed mischief, and Mycroft had been wholly unprepared for the wave of hurt which crashed over him. He and Sherlock didn’t have secrets between them.

Or rather _Mycroft_ had plenty of secrets, but _Sherlock_ never hid anything from him. They were close. Sherlock told him everything.

Apparently not anymore, Mycroft thought with bitter resentment as Sherlock ducked and dodged and did his best to escape when Mrs. Hudson took a comb to his hair. Even the sight of Sherlock’s nanny strong arming him into submission and raking a comb through his curls while Sherlock yelped in outrage didn’t lift his spirits. Sherlock was keeping secrets from him…with John Watson.

Mycroft’s hands curled in Sherlock’s duvet, and he suddenly realized that he absolutely, unequivocally _loathed_ John Watson. He’d never really liked him, and now he hated the very ground the Alpha walked on. This was one offense too many: forcing Sherlock to keep secrets from him.

“Fine!” Mrs. Hudson let go of Sherlock in exasperation, blowing her own hair out of her eyes where it’d straggled down from her bun during the impromptu wrestling match. “Go looking like a street urchin. It’s not as if I care, but I thought you’d be a bit more concerned about it since you’ll be seeing John.”

Sherlock scowled. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Mrs. Hudson said airily, spinning away and straightening up a pile of discarded clothes from earlier, efficiently folding the garments and pretending to ignore Sherlock. “It’s none of my concern if you go downstairs like that. I’m sure you look…fine.”

Sherlock worriedly glanced at himself in the mirror. “I don’t…”

“If you ask me, it seems John’s quite partial to your hair, what with the way he sometimes touches and ruffles it-“

“What do you mean John touches Sherlock’s hair?” Mycroft demanded, outraged, but Mrs. Hudson talked over him.

“I’ll admit that it’s very pretty hair. When you comb it. I can see why John likes it. But if you’d prefer to go downstairs and meet John looking like…that.” She cast a delicate glance at Sherlock’s hair and his hands leapt to it. “It’s none of my concern, as I said. I’m sure John won’t care if you look unkempt. Perhaps you’ll start a fashion.” She turned away as if she were unconcerned, but her hints had done the trick.

Sherlock snatched up the discarded comb and ran it through his hair, attempting to pick out a few of the knottier tangles before he finally gave up, sighing. He cast a meek look at his nanny. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Would you…” He bit his lip, fiddling with the comb. “Would you please help me comb my hair?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to comb your hair. You were set on the wild look, as I recall.”

“No, I…I’d like it combed now. Please?”

“Very well, dear.” Mrs. Hudson dropped all pretense of folding clothes and happily accepted the comb from Sherlock, beaming at him in approval. “Now hold still. We’ll have you looking spiffy in a jiff.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock held perfectly still, wincing when she worked on the tangles near the crown of his head but not complaining or trying to get away. He caught sight of Mycroft glaring darkly at him and sighed. “John doesn’t actually touch my hair. Or well. He does. But not a lot.”

“He shouldn’t be touching you at all. Is that another secret you weren’t going to tell me?”

“No.” Sherlock answered. “It wasn’t a secret. Just not something I felt like mentioning.” He screwed up his face as Mrs. Hudson set to work on the last, and worst, of the tangles. “And the secret about my punishment…it’s nothing bad, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pulled himself up from the bed, tugging at his cuffs and doing his best to look supremely uninterested. “If it’s nothing bad, why can’t you tell me?”

“Because.” Sherlock mulishly stuck out his chin in a way Mycroft hadn’t seen since Sherlock was seven.

“Because why?”

“ _Because_ John and I decided what we’re going to do, and only he and I will really know what’s going on. And _because_ we want to keep it a secret. I want to keep it a secret. That’s why.”

“Fine.” Mycroft made to leave. Sherlock could keep secrets with John Watson if that was what he wanted. Mycroft didn’t care. Not one whit.

He jerked open the door and had one foot in the hall when Sherlock’s small voice called him back.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed. No matter how angry he was, he was powerless to resist Sherlock’s call. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Mycroft turned, fixing his little brother with a puzzled expression. “For what?”

Sherlock blushed. He bit at his lip, inspecting the ceiling as if something fascinating were residing there. “Thank you…for John.”

Mycroft blinked, nonplussed, not knowing how on earth to respond to that- and Sherlock rushed to fill the silence, babbling at top speed.

“I just wanted to say thank you for John because I know you worked very, very hard to find an Alpha who you thought would be suitable for me. And I know it took a lot of effort and sacrifice on your part and I wanted you to know that I’m aware of all that. And that I like him. John. Quite a lot actually. A proper amount, of course. As much as one should like an Alpha they’ve only known a week but to whom they’re betrothed.” He added, blush deepening, and Mycroft could feel his mouth hanging open. Sherlock wasn’t done yet.

“So thank you. Because John’s nice and funny and I suppose he’s what one could consider handsome. Not that I’ve noticed a thing like that. I haven’t. I know I said. The other day. It’s only just. Well. John’s not hideous. He’s also moderately smart and he’s not mean even though he can be an arsehole sometimes- but I think everyone can at one time or another. Even I can be an arsehole. Once in a while. But my point is that John seems like he’s a really wonderful Alpha and I’m really glad you decided to betroth me to him because I think we’ll be very happy together. I know it’s not been that long, but we already are happy. I didn’t think I’d ever be happy with the Alpha I was betrothed to and I thought it’d be terrible and I’d hate them or they’d be mean to me or tease me over things I liked or control everything but John doesn’t do any of that. We’re actually happy which is what I realized today when John and I were having lunch and I wanted to let you know and say thank you.”

Sherlock ended his rapid-fire speech by dashing past Mycroft, out the door of his bedroom, and sprinting down the hall without bothering to look back or wait on Mycroft to follow after him. Mycroft was left stood in the middle of Sherlock’s bedroom, trying to process everything he’d just been told.

“He still loves you, you know.”

“What?” Mycroft turned to Mrs. Hudson, his frown of confusion met with a serene smile.

“He may be head over heels for that Alpha, but Sherlock still loves you, dear.”

“I know that.” Mycroft snapped. He didn’t need to be told that his brother loved him. “Of course he still loves me.”

“Of course he does.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, and Mycroft spared her a dark look before striding down the hallway after Sherlock.

And he would never admit it, least of all to Mrs. Hudson, but after being told that, he did feel better.

Somewhat.

* * *

 

The palace at Marseille was usually full to bursting with people: various lords and ladies and courtiers and servants and visitors and this or that person who had business with the Queen or Prince on such and such a matter. Their clamoring voices rang out through the crowded hallways in a confusing, flamboyant racket. Calling out, shouting, yelling instructions, announcing names and titles, pompously ordering people to make way, make way, clear a path, get out of the damn way! People darted this way and that, here and there, up one set of stairs and down another, over and under and side to side and…

For anyone not used to the organized chaos, it was an overwhelming, roiling sea of humanity, the tide of which one could either navigate or be utterly lost in.

Even at night, the palace wasn’t restful. Once the sun dipped below the horizon and the candles flared to life throughout the great stone edifice, dinner was served and everyone who was at Court attended. For hours, the hall rang with loud chatter and banter, the scraping of silverware on plates, calls for more wine, the sounds of music, laughter, and sporadic shouting as conversations turned political and tempers flared.

After dinner, one could always count on various entertainments to wile away the empty stretch of evening with, and since the betrothal, each night had featured some new sensation: dancing, fireworks, acrobats, performers, concerts, players, etc. It was usually the wee, small hours of the morning before the amusements ended and everyone made their way back to their beds- or, in some cases, to someone else’s.

Greg knew all about the latter.

He walked quickly, his steps on the plush, rich carpeting as silent as possible. He felt like a criminal, sneaking around the palace, and irrationally guilty- as if he really were on his way to commit some terrible crime.

Which, he supposed, he was.

If any act were treasonous, bedding the Prince of Northumbria would be at the top of the list.

Not as if that stopped him. Greg even quickened his pace, heart thrumming at the alluring idea of what awaited him at the end of his nighttime journey. He’d had to wait ages before being able to meet with Mycroft. The comedic play that evening had been a stunning success and so afterwards, everyone lingered downstairs. Conversing and laughing and socializing and drawing out the evening until it was well past midnight.

Greg had been irrationally irritated as the minutes slipped past because he’d waited all bloody day to meet with Mycroft. He ached to touch him, to kiss and scent and feel the smooth glide of Mycroft against him- but he couldn’t do any of that because the silly lords and ladies kept calling out for more wine, requesting that music be played, and a few impromptu dances broke out.

It’d been so exasperating.

Pining, hoping the party was broken up soon, and thinking of what he would do to Mycroft when they were finally alone, Greg had done his best not to look at Mycroft. But he hadn’t been able to keep from sneaking a peek at the Omega every once in a while. Which hadn’t helped because Mycroft looked so serene. Unaffected. Steady and calm and clearly not eagerly waiting for the night to end so he could meet with Greg. He’d never once looked at Greg either, but kept his focus on whoever he was speaking with- and by the end of the night he was dancing with the Duke of Lennox.

Again.

Greg had wanted to leave. It was agony to stay.

He hadn’t left the room once.

Of course, what had drawn everyone’s attention, more than the food or play or wine or dancing, was watching the Crown Prince and his betrothed, the Alpha Prince John.

* * *

 

Rumors had circulated over the Alpha Prince’s harsh punishment, and as they helped their mistresses dress for the evening, the ladies-in-waiting told them in shocked whispers what they’d heard from the servants who’d heard it on good authority from the parlor maid who’d spoken to the scullery maid who was bonded to the above stairs butler…and he’d said that the footman said that the hall boy said the steward said her Omega lover informed her that his friend who worked in the kitchens said the upstairs maid said-

The Alpha Prince had visited the Crown Prince that afternoon.

In the Omega’s _private bedchamber_.

He’d stayed there for _hours_.

Prince Mycroft had been seen leaving the wing shortly after Prince John entered it, and while he’d looked the same as he ever did, speculation was rife as to what had really happened between himself and the Alpha. No one had actually witnessed the interaction but that didn’t stop them from having wild theories and speculations, and by the time everyone went down to dinner, it was commonly known that Prince John had threatened Mycroft with violence, forcing him to back down- because how else could Prince John have made the Prince Mycroft capitulate?

All the servants knew Prince Mycroft was cold and fearless. Bold, quick to anger, and a man who couldn’t be browbeaten into submission. A few of the servants who’d felt his wrath shared a fond wish to see him “set down” and “put in his proper place,” but that was unlikely because Prince Mycroft wasn’t scared of anyone.

Except, it now seemed, Prince John.

That, in and of itself, made some of the servants (and a few of the lords and ladies) look askance at the new Alpha, and their respect (and fear) of him rose significantly.

According to the rumors, once Prince John entered the Crown Prince’s bedroom he’d shouted at him for over an hour, lecturing the little boy about what he’d done wrong and how shameful it was and how an Alpha should be given due respect. Prince John had been furious. A fearsome sight to behold (though no one had really seen him- but that was a tiny, overlooked detail).

Prince Sherlock had cried. Yes, everyone insisted in shocked tones. The little boy had really _cried_. Probably sobbed. After all, who wouldn’t after being shouted at by an angry Alpha? His reaction was only natural. Prince John remained unmoved- as was proper for an Alpha, everyone agreed. It was a weakness to let an Omega get away with things just because they shed a few phony tears. They had to learn.

Prince John demanded an apology, which was tearfully given (the idea of which broke a few of the softer hearts because the Crown Prince was so small, and looked so sweet, that perhaps the Alpha needn’t have been so strict with him…)

His apology hadn’t been enough for Prince John. As punishment, all of the Crown Prince’s tutors were dismissed. Yes. _All of them._ The Crown Prince had begged for Prince John to reconsider. Everyone knew how much he enjoyed his lessons, and Prince Mycroft was seen leaving his mother’s chambers earlier that day. It was believed that he’d tried to intervene in the situation…but the Queen publicly sided with the Alpha. As was right.

But who would now instruct the Crown Prince? That was the question which was asked.

Well- and this was where the rest of the rumor was told with barely concealed excitement because it was _so scandalous_ -

From now on, Prince John would be instructing the Crown Prince. _Personally_.

Eyebrows were raised. Shocked exclamations. Quite a few “back in my days” were uttered. But the general opinion was-

“He has Patronage, and the Crown Prince is his Omega. The Alpha can do as he pleases with him. It’s best for him to take over his education now and learn him what he wants instead of letting the Omega carry on and get all sorts of silly ideas.”

“Like he’s already done! If Prince Sherlock had been instructed like he should from the start, he never would’ve attacked his Alpha…He’d know what was what and how to show proper respect.”

“Exactly! Well, I for one am glad to see the Alpha taking more of an interest in the Crown Prince’s education. He’ll train him up proper and mark my words! We won’t be having anymore of these dramatics like this morning.”

Sympathy for the Crown Prince was thin. Most of the Court sided with Prince John. He was the Alpha. And after the humiliating way he’d been treated that morning, most people (Alphas in particular) didn’t think he’d punished the Crown Prince harshly enough.

And so there was _more_ speculation which turned into _surmising_ which morphed into absolute _certainty_ …and the rumor continued…

It was whispered that Prince John had forbidden the Crown Prince from interacting with anyone except himself. From now on, he was to spend time only with his Alpha, forced to learn to enjoy Prince John’s company. He had no choice.

“Elsie heard some of the Scottish Alphas talking while she was tending the fire, and she said they said it was a common enough sort of punishment from Prince John’s father. He’d take privileges and things away when he gave out correction. I don’t know what kind, they didn’t say…but they did say his wife wouldn’t be allowed to leave the castle for months at a time unless it was with him. He sounds like an Alpha who knows what’s what in his Court, and how to treat an Omega. Seems to me he raised Prince John good and proper, since he’s following in his father’s footsteps…”

Expectations were high when the Royal Family entered the dining room that evening, and the eyes of the entire Court turned to see how the betrothed couple would behave. Prince Sherlock bowed to the Alpha, murmured something very quietly which no one was able to hear (though everyone claimed they’d heard, hadn’t you?) and received a polite bow in return…then didn’t leave Prince John’s side the rest of the evening.

So it was true!

“It’s what an Omega wants: structure.” Someone whispered to their partner. “He’s grateful, I’m sure, for the Alpha’s firm hand. The Queen is happy with what he’s done, that’s for certain. I heard she praised John for his cleverness.”

The Crown Prince spent the whole evening with his Alpha, sat across from him at dinner, beside him during the comedic play, and stayed at his side throughout the following revelry, their heads close together as they talked.

“Imparting instruction. That’s what he’s doing. Seems a good Alpha. I thought that from the beginning.”

“Just what an Alpha ought to be.”

“He ignored him too much that first night. I told my Alpha it wouldn’t end well- and look what happened. Prince John’s realized he has to be on his toes with that one.”

“I dunno. Seems to me he wouldn’t let the Crown Prince laugh like that if he were teaching him deference-“

“But Prince John is laughing too.”

“No one said you had to always be stern when teaching an Omega. Gods above! The correct way to do things is be strict but amusing and the Omega learns their lesson, and also where to draw the line. It’s a good method.”

“Well, back in my day…”

Everyone was in high spirits, full of good wine and even better gossip, and the party might’ve continued all evening. But when the Queen noticed that the Crown Prince had slumped over and fallen asleep, resting his forehead against Prince Watson’s shoulder, she jovially scolded everyone over the lateness of the hour as if they were naughty children and ordered them all to bed…

* * *

 

It was ridiculously easy to sneak into Mycroft’s bedroom.

Greg had never realized. It was a glaring oversight, a dangerous threat to Mycroft’s safety. That knowledge added to the guilt Greg already felt because he should have immediately fixed the problem once he was aware of it and made it impossible for anyone to steal into Mycroft’s bedroom…but since it was Greg himself who was doing the stealing in, he let the lapse in security slide.

For the time being.

Mycroft was expecting him and so Greg opened his bedroom door without knocking and slipped inside. It was dark, lit only by the feeble light of the moon, and while his eyes adjusted, he heard the shifting of fabric from the direction of the bed.

“Gregory?”

It was embarrassing the way his body immediately responded to Mycroft’s voice and Greg couldn’t wait to feel Mycroft’ body against his, soft and warm and smelling so godsdamn good.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Mycroft offered innocently, and Greg stifled a groan. He could already feel flames of desire licking at him just over the idea of Mycroft going through the regular motions of getting ready for bed but then laying down and waiting for Greg to get there, thinking of what they were going to do and maybe getting aroused-

Greg moved forward, irresistibly drawn to the bed because he knew what it was like to have Mycroft, hard and wet for him, reaching for Greg, moaning so so quietly but then at the very last unable to stay quiet as he came. Afterward, Mycroft would give Greg that particular smile, looking at him as if he’d done something amazing.

Greg swallowed thickly. He felt as if he were burning from the inside out.

He stopped when he reached the bed, waiting to see what Mycroft would do. Mycroft’s bed was enormous and Greg secretly thought it looked made to be fucked in. There were strong wooden posts at each corner for stability which were also perfect for clutching at, an intricate headboard with convenient places to grip and hold (though Greg probably thought the design was something artistic and not vulgar, but he digressed), and the wide, wide, wide expanse of mattress which let them spread out in any direction they wanted and still have lots of room to spare.

“Good evening, Gregory.” Mycroft said formally, his eyes flicking down Greg’s body, and Greg had the uncomfortable feeling he was being judged. He suddenly wished he’d bathed properly before coming to see Mycroft instead of hurriedly splashing off the important bits in the washbasin in his room.

He could smell the fresh, clean scent of Mycroft, the soap he’d used to bathe with that evening. Probably in the tub which sat in the corner of the room. Greg had seen it the last time he visited, and he hadn’t been able to get that damn tub out of his head since. He tortured himself imagining Mycroft naked in the water, long limbs splayed, and while it wasn’t big enough to accommodate two, Greg thought it could be done if Mycroft were on top, riding his cock with the gentlest of grinds so the water wouldn’t slosh out and make a mess, Greg’s hands would be steady on his hips, helping him lift up and down until they were both desperate for a faster pace and Mycroft was groaning into every kiss like he sometimes did right before he came-

“Good evening.” Greg managed, and Mycroft shifted on the bed, scooting closer. He was still dressed in his nightshirt and the fabric gaped around his neck and shoulders, exposing a bit of his chest. Greg licked his lips, thinking of kissing Mycroft right there, on his exposed collarbone. Laving over his neck and chest and all the parts of him he could see, before whisking the nightshirt over his head and putting his mouth on all the rest.

And it didn’t help that Greg knew the thick wax patches Mycroft wore over his scent glands, which were always hidden by his high collars, would already be removed. Greg’s body tightened, thinking of Mycroft’s scent, of burying his face in the bend of his neck and tasting it on his tongue while he thrust, scenting at him which sharpened his pleasure to a keen point.

“Are you well this evening?” This was how they always started: Mycroft stiff and formal, holding himself back. It took a while until he was comfortable moving forward and it didn’t bother Greg, but he did wonder how long it’d take until Mycroft was more relaxed with him- or if they would even be together long enough for that to happen.

He pushed that idea away.

“I’m really good.” Now that I’m here and finally get to see you. “Yourself?”

“I’m very well, thank you.” Mycroft moved just a bit closer to the edge of the bed, shuffling on his knees, causing his nightshirt to gape even more. Greg stared, riveted. Mycroft was always so put together, covered from neck to wrist to ankle and all parts in-between, and getting to see him like this…did things to Greg. “Thank you for accepting my invitation tonight.”

Greg couldn’t help grinning. “You don’t have to thank me, Mycroft. Trust me. I wanted to be here.”

“All the same.” Mycroft lips curved up in a tentative smile, and Greg wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him and not stop until Mycroft forgot all about his polite manners and his shyness and the only word he could say was Greg’s name.

He resisted, but it was a very near thing.

“I actually wondered if you’d still be awake by the time I got here.” Greg said. Conversation seemed to relax Mycroft. Besides, Greg enjoyed talking with him like this: privately, one on one in an intimate setting. It was the only time Mycroft ever let his guard down, and when he did Greg thought he was warm and funny and rather adorable. He loved talking with Mycroft.

“Why?”

“It’s been a long day for you, hasn’t it? Longer than all the others, I mean.”

“You are certainly correct about that.” Mycroft said. “And calling it a long day is laughably inaccurate. I don’t believe I remember a time when Sherlock caused so much chaos.”

Greg grinned. He couldn’t remember a time either. “Where’d Sherlock learn to do that anyway?” It was what he’d been wondering all day, and his suspicions were confirmed when Mycroft said-

“From me.” Mycroft gave him a devious look. “And where did I learn such an uncouth technique, one may ask?”

“Are you blaming _me_?” Greg asked in mock outrage and Mycroft’s smile widened.

“Indeed. This was all your fault, Captain, because it was you who taught me to act in such an uncivilized manner. I never would’ve told my little brother to go about injuring bullying Alphas in the testicles if it hadn’t been for my Captain instructing me how to do so in the first place.”

Even though he knew Mycroft was joking, Greg couldn’t even pretend to be unrepentant. Fuck yes, he had taught Mycroft how to do that. He’d done his best to teach him how to injure an Alpha as badly as possible if he were ever attacked because the Queen had flatly refused to let him teach Mycroft anything else.

“I don’t deny that I taught you. It’s a complicated technique, though, and has to be taught by a professional. So me teaching you was fine, but you messed up when you thought you were smart enough to teach Sherlock yourself.” Mycroft’s eyebrows went up at that and Greg felt a beat of lust and fear which sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. “Obviously, you did it wrong. You had to have left something out.” He finished teasingly, and Mycroft rolled his eyes but he was grinning as he did so.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened, Gregory. Instructing someone how to kick an Alpha in the testicles is an incredibly difficult concept. I didn’t realize just how difficult, otherwise I never would have undertaken such a monumental task.” Mycroft shrugged and one side of his nightshirt slipped entirely off his left shoulder, revealing milky pale skin. Greg’s throat went dry. “In my defense, it seemed like good knowledge to have in one’s possession since one never knows when it may be useful.”

“Like how it was useful this morning?”

“Oh, yes.” Mycroft replied sardonically. “This morning was exactly the sort of situation I had envisioned when I taught Sherlock how to do that.”

Greg bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching as he remembered the incredibly shocked look on Mycroft’s face. And since it’d all worked out (he didn’t believe any of the rumors about Sherlock and John were true; Mycroft wouldn’t be happy if they were) Greg couldn’t stop from chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so surprised as you did.”

Mycroft glared at him, but Greg could tell he was trying not to laugh himself.

“It’ll be a story to tell their grandkids, that’s for sure.”

“If they even have grandchildren.” Mycroft retorted. “I’ve heard more than one person worrying that John will now be unable to-… to produce children.”

“John’ll be fine-“

“So I assumed.”

“He’ll be sore for a few days- and more cautious around Sherlock in the future- but there won’t be lasting damage. And from what I can tell, it all worked out…even if it did look shady there for a while.”

“Thank the gods for that.” Mycroft murmured. “Today has been very tiring for me, and while I appreciate your consideration, I assure you that I’m not too tired to participate in our usual activities.”

“Are you sure?”

Mycroft nodded.

“We don’t have to.” Greg insisted, because he knew Mycroft had been up since dawn and it was already past one in the morning. “Not if you’re really tired. I can leave and let you rest-“

“No!” Mycroft hurriedly closed the remaining distance between them, kneeling on the edge of the bed. He was close enough that Greg could see the moonlight reflected in his eyes, and he wasn’t going to wax poetical, but the sight was stunning. “I’m not too tired.”

Greg hesitated, staring at Mycroft whose nightshirt was gaping so enticingly around his shoulders, and wanted to be persuaded. He didn’t want to leave. He’d thought of being with Mycroft all day. Yes, the sex was nice, and he’d looked forward to that as well…but he relished the time they spent together too. He enjoyed their conversations. Having Mycroft all to himself for just a few short hours.

“May I make a request this evening?” Mycroft asked, and all thoughts of leaving were wiped away. This was new.

“Of course.”

“Before I ask, please know that if my request is something you find unpalatable, you need only tell me. I promise I won’t get offended.”

Greg didn’t think there was anything Mycroft could ask for that he’d find unpalatable. “What is it you’d like, sweetheart?”

“I thought that perhaps tonight I could undress you.”

His request was so polite, as if he were asking for a favor instead of offering to strip Greg out of his clothes so they could fuck. The idea of Mycroft taking the initiative and removing his clothes, maybe touching Greg while he did it-

Please. Yes.

Greg forced himself to ask. “Is that really what you’d like?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you can.” Please, please, please…

“Thank you.” Mycroft slipped off the bed, his nightshirt demurely falling past his knees. Greg didn’t know why that was so seductive, but seeing Mycroft in it and knowing there were no other layers, that he was naked underneath and all he had to do was lift the hem-

Mycroft reached for the laces on the front of Greg’s shirt, plucking at the strings and undoing them with precise movements. Greg wished there was more light so he could see Mycroft better. His face was mostly hidden in shadow and Greg wanted to know what he was looking at, if Mycroft were enjoying himself or just trying to get it over with as soon as possible.

It certainly seemed to be the latter. Once Greg’s shirt was undone, Mycroft reached to where it was tucked into the top of his trousers, bunching the fabric in his hands and tugging upward. At this rate Greg would be naked inside a minute, and while he couldn’t really complain about that- Mycroft tearing his clothes off was a common fantasy of his- he’d rather hoped…

Suddenly, Mycroft swayed forward, closing the small distance between them, and pressed his lips to the exposed skin of Greg’s chest.

“Oh fuck.” It was a chaste kiss, but since it was rare for Mycroft to kiss him anywhere other than the lips or face Greg felt the shock of it travel through his whole body. Encouraged by Greg’s reaction, Mycroft kissed him again, moving across his collarbone before tugging at his shirt until it came loose from his trousers. He ran his hands beneath it, fingers skating along Greg’s skin and raising gooseflesh in their wake.

“Mycroft...”

Mycroft’s palms splayed against his back and Greg stepped forward, wanting more. He loved when Mycroft touched him because it was wonderful and terrible and made him feel like he’d never get enough of it. Mycroft hauled his shirt up and over his head, and as soon as Greg emerged he cupped Mycroft’s cheek and kissed him like he’d wanted to do all evening. All afternoon. All morning. Ever since he’d left Mycroft last night.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, eyes slipping closed, and Greg started walking him backwards to the bed-

“No, wait.” Mycroft stopped him with a hand against his stomach, but before Greg could worry he’d done something wrong, Mycroft’s touch softened, fingers stroking coyly. “You’re not undressed yet. There were other things I wanted to do…”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Greg promised throatily, meaning that from the bottom of his soul, and Mycroft beamed at him, sinking down onto the side of the bed which put him level with Greg’s abdomen.

“Thank you.” He pulled him closer and, after darting a shy look up at him, pressed a soft kiss to his stomach. Greg gasped, muscles flexing beneath Mycroft’s lips, then relaxing, and Mycroft hummed and did it again. And again. Each time was in a different place but Greg’s response was always the same and chills raced along his sides, raising the hair on his arms.

He tried not to be, but he was excruciatingly aware of how very close Mycroft was to his cock. Soft, pecking kisses were placed along the ridges of his abdomen, Mycroft’s fingers following and outlining each crest and dip and shallow before applying his lips to them once again. Greg risked a look down- then hurriedly looked away, his stomach twisting with desire because the sight of Mycroft…where he was at…seeing the top of his head…Greg _couldn’t_ -

“You’ve seen it all before, you know.” He quipped, embarrassed at Mycroft’s curious assessment and needing a distraction.

“Yes, I have seen it all before, as you put it. However, I’ve never been able to touch what I’ve seen, which is what I…” Mycroft’s fingers skimmed against his sides, tickling. “You’re very handsome, Gregory.”

Oh, gods. “Y-you really…think so?”

Mycroft snorted, and Greg assumed he was being given a look that let him know Mycroft thought he was a moron…but he couldn’t look down and check. He couldn’t. “You know you’re handsome.”

“Maybe…maybe I like h-hearing that you think I’m handsome.” Greg wasn’t paying attention to their conversation. All his focus was on Mycroft’s lips, where he was placing them and how they felt and-

He jerked at the unexpected swipe of Mycroft’s tongue and his hands leapt down to Mycroft’s head, running his fingers through his hair with agitated fervor. “Oh gods, Mycroft…”

“I do think you’re very handsome.” Mycroft’s breath was warm and Greg’s cock gave a dangerous throb. “I’ve always thought you were.”

“Y-you have?”

“Oh, yes. I used to watch you training with the Guard, observing your sword practices and the like.” Another lick, dragging his tongue down and over Greg’s navel. Greg’s heart felt as if it were trying to beat out of his chest. “You were so striking to watch.”

“Really?” Mycroft’s hair was soft between his fingers and Greg wondered how Mycroft would react if he gave it a gentle tug. Then what Mycroft had said fully registered. “Wait. You- you watched us training?”

“Yes.”

“I never…I never saw you there?”

“You wouldn’t have.” Mycroft hooked his fingers into the top of his trousers and pulled Greg into the v of his spread legs. Greg panted out a quick breath, and thought, for the first time since he’d been a teen, that he was going to come in his trousers. And wouldn’t that be fucking embarrassing?

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t there.” Mycroft slid the ties at the front of Greg’s trousers loose, pulling the laces through the eyelets one…by…one…by…one, his fingers brushing against Greg’s erection each time.

“Then how did you watch us?”

“I watched _you_.” Mycroft corrected, a slight tremble to his voice. “And I watched you from a balcony which overlooked the training yard.” Skimming touches to his cock which pulsed against the restraining fabric, Mycroft outlining the ridge of flesh with the barest caress.

Greg shuddered. “Mycroft…please…”

“What?”

“Why? Why did you…why did you watch? Me?”

“I’ve always thought you were attractive, Gregory.” Mycroft murmured. “And watching you as you trained was very…effecting.”

Had Mycroft meant that the way it’d sounded? Was Greg being perverted? Surely he wasn’t implying what Greg thought he was implying. Greg was still trying to decide when Mycroft, with no warning, firmly palmed at his cock through his trousers. Greg shouted, instinctually pushing into the touch before he could stop himself, and he heard Mycroft groan-

That was it.

He opened his eyes, surprised when he saw just how aroused Mycroft was. Greg hadn’t even done anything to him and his cock was already hard, fluid beading at the tip, and jerking in time with his pulse, while a flush stained his cheeks, bleeding down into his chest where his nipples were hard. Greg moaned, whisking Mycroft’s nightshirt off and then ducking down to mouth kisses along one cream-colored shoulder, the skin smooth and warm beneath his lips, and Mycroft looped his arms around Greg’s neck.

Greg had planned to do other things. He’d wanted to kiss every inch of Mycroft’s body. Suck his cock. Finger him open. Make him go incoherent with pleasure. There was no time for any of that.

He jerked his trousers down, struggling out of them, hindered by Mycroft trying to help, and they fell back, not even making it halfway up the bed before Mycroft was hooking his legs around Greg’s waist and bucking upward.

“I wanted you all day.” He moaned, and Greg had to kiss him again, as hard as he could, swiping his tongue in his mouth as if he could actually taste the words. He loved to hear Mycroft talk when they made lo- had sex. Hearing the innocently naughty words coming out of that posh mouth never failed to arouse him.

“Wanted what?” Greg asked shamelessly, trying to keep Mycroft talking.

“You. This. Love when you touch me…it f-feels so…so good. Used to imagine-”

Greg rolled his hips, for all intents and purposes humping himself against Mycroft- but Mycroft’s mouth fell open with a long, stuttering moan as their cock slid together. The friction was almost too much, but Mycroft arched beneath Greg, brow furrowed and gasped out his name. “What’d you imagine?”

“Having you.”

“Yeah?” Greg pressed Mycroft down into the bed, kissing along his jawline, rolling his hips in steady pumps. Mycroft tried to thrust back but was uncoordinated and awkward. Greg let him carry on anyway- didn’t even think of telling him to stop- because the sight of Mycroft aroused, wanting to come, and rubbing himself off against him was breathtaking. “Gods, you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

It was such a juvenile thing, humping against each other on the bed like two horny teens, but Greg didn’t give a good godsdamn. He could feel how hard Mycroft was, clutching at him, and staring up at him as a fine trembling worked its way through his limbs.

“Gregory-“

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” Greg rocked harder, sliding their cocks together, knowing Mycroft was close, tearing a frantic sob of pleasure from him.

“Tell me.” Greg begged. “Tell me you’re gonna come for me, sweetheart. Please. Want to hear you say it.”

Mycroft panted, looking agonized. “Gregory…”

“Yes. Gods, Mycroft…yes.”

“G-Gregory, I’m…” Mycroft writhed, rocking faster. “I’m going to c…”

“What? You’re going to what, sweetheart?” Greg’s arms were shaking as he held himself over Mycroft so he wouldn’t crush him. There was too much friction between them, not enough precome slicking the way, and Greg knew they couldn’t continue this for long. “Tell me. Please, Mycroft. Please. I wanna hear you say it.”

“Oh gods- I’m going…to c-come!” Mycroft choked out. “Gregory…Gregory…”

“ _Yes_.” He loved how Mycroft said his name, and could feel his own orgasm getting closer, the pressure building.

“I’m going to come…Gregory...Gregory…” Mycroft chanted breathlessly. “I’m going to-“

He stiffened, cock getting impossibly harder between them…before he shuddered, ejaculate pulsing wetly between them and he cried out softly with each spurt. It was the best sound Greg had ever heard and he could feel Mycroft’s cock jerking against his own. He gently thrust against Mycroft to ease him through the rest of his orgasm, feeling the Omega shiver from the sensation, before forcing himself to stop.

It was agony. Greg wanted to keep thrusting. He was shaking with need. He was so close. But Mycroft would be too sensitive to keep going. It would hurt him, turn what had clearly been a pleasurable orgasm into something painful and raw. So he waited, trying to keep from moaning, his cock throbbing and throbbing...

As soon as Mycroft slumped against the bed with a relieved sigh, all of the tension suddenly draining out of him, Greg raised up, supporting himself on one arm and reached between them. His cock was hard, covered in Mycroft’s warm ejaculate and he fisted at it quickly, gasping with relief of his own, bringing himself to his own release while Mycroft watched, eyes wide.

After his orgasm, his arms were shaking, not wanting to support him, and Greg gingerly let himself collapse beside Mycroft, trying to get his breath back while his heart continued to pound. He’d get up in a minute and clean them both up, but at the moment he didn’t think he’d be coordinated enough.

He slowly became aware that Mycroft was too quiet. He rolled his head to the side to look at the Omega, only to find Mycroft staring at him.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Greg didn’t believe him. Mycroft’s voice was steady, but there was tension in his body where before there hadn’t been. Greg ran through what they’d done, looking for something he’d done wrong, when he’d maybe pushed Mycroft…but nothing came to mind.

“Are you sure?” He thought about reaching for Mycroft and pulling the younger man to him for a cuddle- but Mycroft was already so tense. He didn’t think the offer would be welcomed.

“Yes.”

* * *

 

Mycroft was quiet while Greg dressed, sitting up in the bed and watching him as he bent and stooped to gather everything. It felt mean to leave Mycroft after their encounters, but Mycroft hadn’t given any indication he wanted Greg to stay, nor had he ever asked him to. Greg would’ve liked to stay. It meant spending more time with Mycroft and (mawkish in the extreme) it meant holding him while he slept and getting to breathe him in all night, then kiss him first thing in the morning.

But Mycroft hadn’t asked Greg to stay, and he didn’t want to overstay his welcome and assume he could stay when Mycroft really wanted him to leave. Greg may be in love with his Prince, but he did have a little pride. He didn’t want to be that pathetic.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft blurted, and Greg turned, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“What?”

“I’m sorry we didn’t have actual sexual intercourse tonight. I…I am aware that is what you would have preferred instead of…” He trailed off, and even in the dark Greg could see him blushing. “But if you…if you stay. I’d. Be more than willing to…to try again to appropriately satisfy you in a pleasing manner.”

“I am appropriately satisfied in a pleasing manner.” Greg crawled back onto the bed and kissed Mycroft’s cheek, but the Omega was stiff and unrelenting. “Don’t be daft, sweetheart.”

“There’s no need to coddle me. I know tonight’s encounter was less than gratifying for you, but…I promise I can make it up to you. If you stay.”

“There’s nothing to make up, sweetheart.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s bare shoulder, heartened when the younger man sighed. “Tonight was amazing. You were amazing.”

“I didn’t make you come.” Mycroft protested in a small voice, but Greg snorted, shaking his head.

“If you think you had no part in making me come, sweetheart, you’re completely wrong.” He kissed Mycroft’s cheek again, then his lips and this time Mycroft responded a little, his lips twitching against Greg’s. “Loved what you did. _All_ of it. Thought I’d come before you’d even got my trousers off.” He admitted, and it made him feel ashamed, but it was well worth it when Mycroft gave a small, awed smile.

“Really?”

“Of course, really. That’s what you do to me…and I’ve never seen something so gorgeous in all my life as when you come for me.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft quietly admonished, cheeks heating, but he tipped his head to the side and kissed him. Greg sighed, his urge to stay rising with every second. He wanted to climb beneath the covers with Mycroft and tangle their legs together and kiss him sleepily as they both drifted off.

Maybe he should stay? Mycroft had asked him to…

He’d only asked Greg to stay because he wanted to make it up to him. Which was wrong. And Greg didn’t want to stay and make Mycroft think he was doing it to get another leg over.

Their kisses were slow and unhurried, and slowly tapered off until Greg was nuzzling at Mycroft’s cheek, scattering kisses along his jaw, his ear, his neck, and Mycroft hummed and rested his head against Greg’s shoulder. They stayed like that, locked in an embrace, for a long time, Greg caressing the small of Mycroft’s back and closing his eyes so he could enjoy the moment better. Mycroft shoved his face further into Greg’s neck and Greg could feel him breathing against his skin. He experienced a sweep of longing so intense it made him tighten his arms around Mycroft and his chest felt as if someone had carved a huge hole in the middle of it.

He loved Mycroft. This was what he wanted.

Greg didn’t want to leave.

It was foolish. There was no reason for him to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The incident may not seem like a big deal to us, but look through history. Kings and Queens were insulted over someone wearing the wrong _color_ in their presence. To actually kick them, especially in such a private area? It would have been a major insult. And since this is Omegaverse, as Mycroft pointed out, Alphas have a lot of pride. Their Omega kicking them in the testicles and bringing them to the ground isn't exactly the most "Alpha" thing to happen.


End file.
